* * *
Where the road ends—
where ceaseless waves of water
and waterlogged debris, suspended,
drift in and out, out and in—
someone faces the wind, chilling;
someone stands immobile,
but for easeless waves of air
breathed in and out, out and in.
Doesn't it seem
that people's suffering
is out of all proportion
to any harm they've done—
might have done
in purported prior lives?
Who set this up?
If it’s all a game, who’s laughing?
Don’t tell me you don’t have a thousand
voices in your head clamoring, ranting,
fuming, lampooning, and issuing commentary
via a thousand points of view. Don’t tell me you
don’t squelch them rather than belch them, or,
if warranted and you’re in the mood, invite them
to stay for tea or a similar heart-to-heart.
LIMERICKS ON FREELANCE WRITING
There once was an Everyday Poet
who said, “I write well; let me show it.”
Her lance—like her fee
and her spirit—were free,
so soon she went broke, don’t you know it?
There twice was a writer who freelanced.
The first time he quit, his affianced
insisted he do.
Bad clients (time two)
showed him how, with his free lance, to be lanced.
And my favorite...
“Writer for Hire” is my trade.
Of blood, sweat and tears, I have made
my very life’s ink—
but freedom, I think,
is worth all the dues that I’ve paid.
Want work an’ money, like other folk—
tired o’ bein’ so dam broke.
Chocolate cake—I gave a look.
Carrot cake—I partook.
Chocolate cake I can decline.
Carrot cake is too sublime.
half an hour early
half an hour late
‘bout damn time!
(Making progress slowly.)
You want to write right, right?
You want to read, read, read.
ELSEWHERE (for Carrie)
Missed the party;
don't know how.
All that fun!
All that chow!
* * *