For some reason, lately I'm remembering old poems I wrote years ago. There's not a lot of them. I complete about one poem a year, usually when I'm in love or heartbroken (the 2 are hard to distinguish.) Several years ago I wrote a love poem for another young man. I can't quite recall it now word-for-word, but I'd like to recover it, update it.
I would lie in your yard until the leaves
pile around my face.
I feel a new poem coming on, not a love poem per se. Something to do with longing, which all my poems seem to be about, or despair. Longing and despair, what a cheerful guy I am. Ah but there's more. It think anger is peeking thru, in the smart-alecky, falsely frivolous posture of Frank O'Hara.
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops you. So beautiful. I mark it.
I should stick with things I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst poem
ever, to say “fuck you” with a smile on my face.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at it(?)
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate. Write my fate
in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
between the lines.
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