I’m putting up the poems for good this time.
I’m hanging them outside
on that rusty fence made of wire
hoping the poems with suffer tetanus and die.
I’m wadding them up
lighting them on fire
or just plain deleting them to oblivion.
I can’t get anything done
with these fucking poems hanging around.
It seems the more I hide them away
the more I see your poems.
Those poor little poems
packaged so pretty
with nothing inside except dust and spit.
I just shake my head
pull the old bastards out
and tinker some more.
Somebody has to do it
if only for the love of all poetry.
Somebody has to balance out the shit.
-this poem appears in Calliope nerve XI