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.”

elevated language don’t cut it:

your music’s too baroque,
the bog of it is too much
swamp to cross; quit
sending me
the long way around
just to fetch eggs.

elevated language don’t cut it:

why do you keep explaining
how things spin? just say
youv’e got yourself stuck
on a bone-strewn plain
and be done. any horror
will take care of itself.

elevated language don’t cut it:

not when the cadence of women
murmuring about justice
while at work is perfect,
not while the creative frenzy-cursing
of the just-injured is perfect,
not while the rhythm
of checkout line chatter
is staccato and glory-filled and 
perfect. 

elevated language don’t cut it

when such plain spoken melodies
can already conjure this everyday earth 
so damn well.

Raise and plant my hanging cross
Tie me to it in my wine-red robe
Time to profit from agony
Which face shall I put on

A “For Sale” face of childhood anguish
A “For Lease” face of monstrous trauma
A “For Rent” face of intermittent sting
A “Discount” face of disrepair

It does not matter which of those I choose
Each says it’s time to dance for my hunger
You don’t need to believe anything you see
There’s nothing to it except what you observe

A man dancing for you while telling a bleak tale
Mid-air maneuvers to illustrate and enlighten
I’m just one of thousands joined in this frenzy
All of us mad jerking in a cult of fancy suffering