Poem # 342

Words come out

fall to the floor...

I pick them up,

but they're already

dead.

It's the fault of the empiricists...

it's the fault of the materialists...

it's the fault of all the isms...

It's the fault of fifty years of drinking...

It's the fault of fifty years of thinking...

It's the fault of my grandfather on my

mother's side.

It's the blessing of having nowhere to go...

it's the blessing of having nothing to do...

it's the blessing of having nothing to say.

I'm a poetry machine...

I'm a poetry Marine...

...a poetry maven,

a poetry raven, one wing

tied behind my craw caw call.

You may think it's funny.

Do you see me laughing?

Do you see me at all?

Did I tell you this wasn't a real poem?

If it had been a real poem,

You'd be home by now.