bad poetry is
a million mouths speaking the same
words, a million tongues rolling the same
tastes in those million mouths
and i'm tired, so tired because they're all
bad in ten million different ways

good poetry is
a revelation that's not mine
i'm humbled and jealous and
i know, god how i know the bitter-honey
words will never form Rorschach-like
from my ink because

i am not brilliant, red and green
flowering over blue sky like
the Moon's mantle, i am
the fish that fights the current and sees
weeds and shining stars and
pale face smiling benevolently

before it is tumbled away
in the deep dark water

it's not your heart, but your soul
and a lacework of sparking neurons flashing
their firework patterns, and i just can't
flick a fingernail and set them off

(can i hope to light up the sky?)