I own a full house
of chores and problems —

some mistakes, some missteps,
some mysteries — unstarted projects,
unopened boxes. Doors with misplaced
keys, others that won’t stay locked
and closed.

I ought to be working on them
as I always do, in a fever to get
something on paper, some vital truth;
ought to be rising with a poem in my fingers
like a key to one of those dusty locks; 

right now, though, I’m doing nothing —
rock-still amid it all, an oyster on ice, 
a stone full of joy, full of juice 
and slippery salt waiting to be 
opened and savored, 
though it will cause my death, and 
why not?
Every day I write though it kills 
because I can’t write a thing anymore
that I haven’t already written
every day forever, and no one
reads any of it though they love
having me around to bring out
in front of company, 
to say of me:

Remember?
This one used to be a feast, 
now is a delicacy 
not to be missed
though his best days are over: 
cherish him
for what he was.

C’mon.  

Stick that blunt little blade in deep
and split me, spill me,
drink me, put me aside when done.
It’s nothing unexpected.
I long ago accepted
that I’ll never be anything
but a means
to someone else’s end,
and that’s fine.
I’m good stuff; don’t feel
bad when you toss my shell —

if I’ve learned anything in life,
it’s that I was built
to be shucked.

1.

What raises a brush to a canvas —

the hand, the heart, or the head?  Or

do you think the brush
is instead held by Another,
by God or Muse or Trauma?

See that statue of the war hero? 
Who is it for —

the single viewer wondering
at the craft that led to
the smoothness of the stone, or
the entire village where it dominates
and shades the central square?

2.

Another poem
that is nothing but questions — 
lazy as a dog in August, lazy
as a good old dirty rug
on a shack floor.  

3.

Who is this for?
Who am I to think
I can write it?

Is this a product
of my arm
or does my sweat
come from trembling
whenever I think 

it’s all been simply a mercy
shown by the cosmos
to a bad little man?

4.

Another reader,
another patron,
another mouth
to feed —

5.

and what do you do
when you know

that no matter what you do
or how you get it in front of them

your poem or sculpture or painting
is once more a failure
in some important way,

mostly because
you are?

when beginning 
do not start with “I”

even if this is about you

hesitate to start with “He” or “She”
as you don’t know enough to stand behind
the choice

you could start with “They”
but wouldn’t that be presumptuous
speaking for them
with no confidence that this
will speak for them

you could look away from human experience
entirely

and boldly
open with the voice of

a horse
a flatworm or fish
a rose ready to begin its petal-molt

no one will question you
as no one can question any of those
to ask if it’s indeed their truth

you could always just start and see where it goes
take a risk and do something
new and othered

such impudence on your part

best to remain seated
on your block of marble
safe
ready to begin
swearing you will
as soon as it’s safe to do so

I was born
sitting at a table
I knew was not
my true place.

I learned to speak, then to
speak poems,
and the first time
I made a promise
to use all that
on behalf of One True Voice
I felt myself ascending
to the moment of balance
when you tip a chair back 
on two legs and it doesn’t quite
fall but you’re hanging there
waiting.  The first time 
I was able to deliver 
upon such a promise,
I felt myself falling

and though I knew
the end would cause pain
and blood would be shed
it was alright
because I also knew
it would not kill me
and after that I would never
have to sit at that table again.

Did we bow down, crushed, when told we would lose our heads
for uttering our few precious, fiery words?

No. We stood upright, put our backs to the wall, 
said our last words:

“Come toward us, swing those swords, impose the sentence:
we will hold you to your corrupt words. 

“Take our heads from us as we stand upright to face you.
We will not speak again. You deserve no more of our words.”