The Archeology of Me
I am ancient
I see from my past
the lame jokes and nervous
giggles before the inevitable
the old wine
drinking red ink
I know myself
least
best
to improve is to doubt
the original notion
I like who
I am
(most of the time)
repetition’s layer building
a mound of telling
the archeology of me
begins with trying to find
something on my desk
defined by scraps of paper
daubed with ink
(artistically of course)
because we conceived of them
we have become like the gods
but now they won’t have
anything to do with us
immune to
the contagions of enthusiasm
a gray morning passes swiftly
I have overstayed
my welcome on the couch
the apple yet to turn
shiny with wet
The Red Wheelbarrow
School of Poetry
In a state of constant
negotiations
I cross another bridge
wander the house
looking for something
drawer after drawer
room to room
not finding it
only her soft leather
evening gloves
ultimately sensual
the possession of meaning
slips through my fingers