old poem

why you write



creating instead of knowing
is a dangerous indulgence. so much
is vicarious, so much self
deceit. create the proper pink

being filled by appropriate size
and everyone's happy staying
down on the farm. but the city
of lust, the world of self, the cosmos of

how a leg swings
is really where it's at; and that
crack in the plaster you saw, until
seeing wasn't enough?

it's still chipped the same way now, long after.
her climax booked your memory
solid for years. there was nothing
more to know, done is done. so you created.


~


2001