ANNE WALDMAN IN GLASS

The nightingale came to me a half-dead legend goldmine

one should not ask any god questions that begin with why

and she sang that in my longing I was not longer learning

in her uneasiness she went behind a strong trunk podium

perhaps I want to know how they gave it to her so freely

reasons in their hearts for which they begged her to take it

every question posed to the poet bears a too hot kernel

the way the wind blows in the room of never grieve

but my ears are sensitive to some versions of the truth

not all clocks keep pace and hers will soon wind down

she misses all the tick adrenaline tock flush flush flush

and remembers a time when she could not sing sing sing

I am a hummingbird with no feet

TRUTH IN SENTENCING 

He made the mistake of asking what I was doing.  As if laying face up on the bed, the blood steadily creeping into my face while I stare at the ceiling breathing quietly, is not enough proof that I am trying to stem the flood of my internal monologue into some semblance of concrete and worthwhile verse.  Verse that is not made of haste or anger.  Verse that bears pain with strength and grace.  “What am I doing,” I echo back to him, reaching for a notebook to put over my hot forehead. “Composing,” I say, and point a pen at him for emphasis so he knows I am saying, “composing, asshole,” because only fools have no patience for the process.  When good enough lines compile a poem good enough, it will be aired in public for everyone to believe in.  A compassionate woman pauses in her bitterness to wonder: is it worse for him—for him—to be called an asshole or a fool?  Real poets know that no good art comes for free, but perhaps they know it not so well as their lovers do.