Poets have told me I can be a poet,

But the door to the future is small,

And the handle sticks.

It looks like the door to a public restroom.

If poets live behind there,

Up against the shadows of skyscrapers

And crammed into tin cans, flower pots, match books,

Slaughtering each other with their pens for tenure and

Proselytizing metaphors,

Then perhaps I'll stay out here a while longer:

Bus tables, look for Jesus in the mayonnaise and

Mary in the jam,

Notice Fibbonacci in the sunflower's maw.

I can slap someone in the face with a bouquet of nettles,

I can kiss my sister on the mouth and shout,

Here's a poem for you all,

You ugly freaks,

Sayonara, but I've found my poems in the

Tree, the pinky toe, the toilet bowl,

And I'll never even write single word.

Instead, perhaps, I'll learn to blow the best

Smoke rings that anyone has ever seen,

So beautiful that people will weep at their perfection,

And helplessly try to catch them in their hands,

They'll be reminded of their mothers,

And first sexual encounters,

The Venus de Milo and Spaghetti-O's.

Perhaps smoke rings seem more democratic to me,

Or else I'm scared that I ain't got what it takes--

But when blown correctly a smoke ring can

Rim your head like a nimbus,

And also a cat's arched back will sometimes make me cry.

(2008)