WASTEFUL THING

Wasteful thing
you feel so good under my fingers
pounding on you like when I was 15
forcing the words to come out
forcing my mind to slow and make them right
Bukowski would have thrown a computer under a truck
they don't make you feel like a writer
the anger in your hands doesn't make
the ink sink in deeper
hitting delete can never
replace the catharsis of balling up
a rotten sheet
or a crummy thought
you don't get
the rhythm of poetry
only heard at the moment of its creation
or the beat of furious fiction
echoing in the night
the days when smudges of ribbon ink
would start to blur the letters
and a writer's hands were dirty
like a mechanic
the metal hammers spoke
the wistful and shameful
the imagined and the true

time soon to rip out these words
pull them forcibly free
like a handgrenade pin
time soon to pack you away
and turn this poem into light and energy
the adrenaline will subside
and I will translate this with
flacid, souless tapping
the chatter cackle of the new century
thanks for the visit
Wasteful thing
you felt so good under my fingers