Ygdrasil

of poems and people

never satisfied
the whiners
always primping
looking in mirrors
screaming for attention
always wanting
to re-invent themselves
rise out of the ashes
presto
you know
go phoenix

who let bukowski in

now the bastard won’t leave
he sits at the kitchen table in my mind
like a sous chef swilling the cooking wine
he is cleaning his nails with a fork

you don’t know what love is

bonfire

that day i torched all the poetry
i was a sick but determined man
i was looking for liberation like
the great bra burners of the 60’s
in pajama bottoms at high noon
i dragged out the olive trash can
gathered up 29 years of poems
every one i could lay hands on
doused them with liquid starter
struck a match and tossed it in

con-trary

having known desire
having drank of pleasure
and purple pain
i stand in front of the mirror
a ghost stirring inside me
inside my musty mind
a hand and
suddenly a razor
rushing through me
one
day someday
one never knows

Copyright 2008 by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers.