All these poets seem indifferent and cold,
Boring! Black and white!
They put their love in monuments
Of stone, frozen, it seems, long ago
By outer space without limit; they strive
To put words together, like spark and dark.
If perfection is darkness, they go that way.
For them, nothing has to be alive.
They spurn the hot-blooded day;
Day will melt their monuments.
They take whatever their readers know
And present it as if it were their wisdom,
Whispering and dropping slowly
Into deception and valley,
A perception of soft, sweet glow,
I brought flowers once to Karla Karrar,
A girl I barely knew, invaded her
Backyard after wandering the hills
For flowers that were almost weeds;
Among weeds, I found strange flowers.
Those were thoughtless thrills;
I was young and could discount them;
I was no poet, then.
Ah, that is one anxious memory.
Now I hope you’ll be able to tolerate me;
I am the book jackets you see, the blurbs and the vanity,
I am the poet now.
I am going to give you love and I am going to give you flowers.
Will you watch as they are depicted as that
For you, right here, in verse, for the next two and three quarter hours?