if i were your plaster angel
hanging dull in the Paris moonlight
i would tell you:

you are the newest vague
ever to hit the streets,
reverting sometimes to
gothic poetry, those grand spires
tipped with poison
but smelling of roses.

you pound fiercely
at your green walls,
hoping to leak out of
gaping corner holes

and everywhere there is poetry
waiting to melt from mashed pea panels
and gluesticky fingertips -

cut and paste &
throw in splinters of legbones
you found in underground catacombs
while drunk and high and tragic.


if i were one of your poems
born of staccato typewriter shots
i would flip the page and say:

never complain of missed meanings
and honesty carpetbombed
from above these idiot borders,
never lament the hydrogen bombs
or deny them the right to exist

the only way to surrender to it is to fear it

this is the mantra of a man
with no money to finger
no name to reveal, only -

'i am a poet. i am the poet!'

as if that wre enough to secure dinner
(and sometimes it is,
sometimes food comes
tripping along the heels of his words
and by the time the sun rises
even the plaster angel is full).


if i were you - your eyes your nose your fame -
dropping to the floor in front of celebrities
i would look in the mirror and say:

jump, man
i'm always jumping
for the next greatest thing -
i'm always praying
i won't trip on words
heavy as acid rain -

and i are laden with
years of smoke &wine &lovemaking
and clinging to real geniuses,
kissing them on the knees
and calling them Shelley

but really, man
how much flesh
did those single-word titles cost?

and i'm hungry for a week

and students throw their shoes

and say hello to the angels

i have no need for wealth,
i am THE poet!