You, prestigious purveyor of poetry,
insist my poems should be a clever package.
That feelings of photographic memories must be bundled up
exclusively for you.
Well, I wrap this with detest.
You may eat what I shat.
Such entrails make fine emjambment
On a Sunday afternoon when the holier than Art, Holy Thou
Takes me away on a suicide mission:
This business of poetry, wishing to be loved.
Only it is just a dream. I over-slept
With a stranger/reaper writing this note (in my sleep)
That I would never send for fear (I couldn’t carry the mission out) .
Unaccomplished.
I am not a spy. I’m not the secret police of feelings, nor a poetry gestapo.
I am not anything (including published) .
Nothing wakes the soul who sits lifeless loathing
The awakening.