Lady bugs

when you slap a presence
against your chest
in early august near the fan
it might turn out to be
a lady bug

you may revolt
no fault to oscillating fan
no fault to rolling stones
there you be

Guilty vibes

your bad dreams
a woodcarving
on your mattress

still and breathless
winking at the moon
afraid to let it bury you

like a murderer;
your bad dreams
kill

you scrub the fingerprints
entwined as you are
from this thing
which, in it's plunging,
has unclogged
that which tears
incomprehensibly
through the silence
beneath your skin

Poetry

it's a small, good feeling

every now and again

when i re-discover

i genuinely like poetry

i know there is no

bad poetry

because i've seen

the unloveable poets

at their lawn chair microphones

dripping beautiful, alien

poetry from wounds

that don't make sense

but i start to think

poets only

enjoy themselves

like the refractive company

that actors make

needing one another

just to make a play

or else they only like themselves and arthur rimbaud

which is understandable

or actually

just themselves, rimbaud, bukowski and leaves of grass

and brautigan,

if they've read him

... brautigan and o'hara...

and kennneth k oh, and certain ginsbergs...

and estrada...

...and patchen...

plath and silverstein...

...and the authors of almost all

of the reasonably short poems

it's a small, good feeling

and i can always use a good feeling

today i can use one because

someone stole my bike