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i told an aspiring poet

not to pull

his punches

     to have fun with it


we’re all hoping

for forever

but if all we do

is wait for the great thoughts

we’ll be sitting in the dark

until the galaxies collide

and over ashes scatter

through the universe



i told him

write a lot

and maybe

     by the end

you’ll have a dozen good poems

               a great novel

          or an amazing story


civilizations rose and fell

with less


so to the other accursed:

aim for the throat

grab the sons of bitches by the ears

and shout until

          brains and body

          are two

give god and trump the finger

say to hell with delusions

and write the way

          starved wolves eat a fawn


forever may never meet you

but they’ll be pouring you drinks

               in hell well

               before you get there


poets are born dead

and it’s a long game

               of catch-up

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