Jack has whiskey in his.
Actually, I don’t think it’s even tea at all,
but merely whiskey in a teacup.
I don’t mention it to him, though,
Because he’ll look at me with those drunk eyes.

John drinks Earl Gray.
I can smell it, but its smell is too familiar--
like a sweet sonnet, seeped too long.
I can smile at him because
He’ll say “ni’in’gale”--unlike Wordsworth.

I drink coffee.
Between the whiskey and the tea, it seems balanced,
A modern accepted addiction.
I take it black
Because that’s so unpoetic and badass.

Jack knocks back another cup.
John sighs and sips--
I guzzle sloppily--lipstick stains my white cup.
There’s nothing to say.

Jack scares me.
I wonder if he would respond to stories of my
Quebecois family--
I can understand why he is how he is.
I was born in the Berkshires, too.

John sighs at me.
I went to London once, and Scotland.
But his world is not my world.
I want to thank him for the words,
But, I just sip my coffee.

Jack stands to go,
So does John.
Jack towers over John, but
John bows to Jack,
and I watch.
Then they go.

Three empty teacups.
I put my pencil to paper.
 
 

Why I Hate Being A Poet

I hate being a poet because it’s all about me.
It’s angst, and emotion--damned whining, that’s what.
It’s talk, and no one cares or even gets it
because I wrote it and felt it, but it’s SHIT.

I hate being a poet because no one even likes poetry.
Why not just say it?
“I am sad.”
None of this “Ah, death, my soul mourns!”

I hate being a poet because it means I’m alone--
it’s the assurance that there’s something
grossly wrong with me.
I must be a psycho pyro-alcoholic suicidal morphine addicted prostitute lunatic--
Otherwise,
What’s the point?

I hate being a poet, mostly, because I’m not one.
I learned long ago that between my
thoughts and words, I am incapable
of saying what I mean.
I mean, that I can’t make it beautiful
when it is really beautiful.
I’m a word pimp.

I hate being a poet because even though I
know I’m not one, I keep pretending to be one.
I’m seduced by words, and pulled
by the pictures they make in my head.

I hate being a poet because I see too much
and feel too much
and speak too much
and love too much
and cry too much
and worry to much
and write
too little.

I hate being a poet because they say Dryden was a poet,
Because Keats was a poet
Because Allen Ginsberg should have married
Walt Whitman was a poet.
And I want none of it.

I hate being a poet because Dr Seuss is my hero.
I hate being a poet because I believe in people.
I hate being a poet because I believe in God.
I hate being a poet because I’ve deluded myself.
I speak in blank verse.

I hate being a poet because it means I’m responsible
It means I’m capable.
It means there is meaning.

I hate being afraid.
There’s the rub.

I hate being a poet because I’m afraid to be a poet.

Ghost Town, D.C.

Wisconsin Avenue stretches out before me, right and left,
Its paved roads waxy and worn by tires and feet.
Watery lights stain the sidewalk and
Fenced-in trees make love to garbage cans.
The tailor shop, the practice space, Safeway,
The antique boutique--all drawn in brick and
White and stone, so clear . . . the busses guzzle by.
The lovers kissing under the streetlights,
The drunk outside the liquir store, begging and trembling,
The tourists with their cameras and astonished looks--
They are apparitions in their absense.
I can see them, where they should be, but they are not there.
Garbage seeps out of the trashcan I stand next to,
I smell its sickly sweet aroma, bananas.
A woman in a blue Safeway apron sits alone in the
bus stop--she looks to me and asks, "Have the time?"
Her watch just broke, she tells me.  Just today.
No, I don't have a watch, but if I
Did I could hear it ticking here, where I stand.
Once I couldn't sleep because of the noise and now
The silence is like a terror.

Menthe
Grandmaman is dead, but her smell is not.
A tub of Avon handcreme lives in Maman's
Medicne cabinet.
She took it from her when she died.
Green jar . . . or pink . . . or purple.
Can't recall.
She told me:
"This is what she smelled like."
And placed it under my nose.
It smelled soft, like a baby--
But how could someone so old and used smell new?
I remember how grandmaman smelled,
Like old skin and wool and tobaccos and mints.
"Menthe."
"Grandmaman, est-ce que tu peut me donner une menthe?
"S'il vous plait?"
With her tired old fingers, yellow stained,
Blue veined, she opened the dusty plastic bag
and put a mint in my hand--
In the middle of my palm--
Soft, round, white, and cold.
It was silky to the tongue at first, then
rough, always sweet, then chewy.
I loved the chewy.
"Merci!  Je t'aime!"
I embraced her until she withered to bones
and vanished to memory.
"Yes, that's what she smelled like."