A Decent Poem

My hair would be
standing out long
in all directions.

Rolling Rock
bottles like dead
men at my feet.

She would be
cleaning, organizing,
whirling in all

directions.

I'd be watching
the television
not listening,

thinking about
the things I wanted
to say eternal.

I want a house,
I want babies,
I want to make
a difference in
peoples lives,
she'd say.

I'd nod,
and scratch
and smoke a butt.

I just wanted
to write a
decent poem.

My Burden

Like a song
played on an
out of tune
guitar,

like store front
city streets
in dying
southern towns,

like green
hand picked
tattoos blurred-
distorted by time ,

the thoughts
that twist
and wrench
through my head
some nights.

Like a newborn pony
I walk uneasy
on shaking legs-

one a.m.

two a.m.

five and six.

I am a dervish,
I paint,
I write,
I cry.

This is what
it is like,

this is my
burden.