The Propensity for Dissatisfaction
When treading the boards, the poem about to be presented,
you check your nervous system, the shakes a binary thing
as is the poem,
presented in a stammer, the chords extemporize the words,
crush metaphors with consummate ease, similes lost in space,
the poem works,
then the applause, gained by solid effort and great resource,
you bow once, and hurriedly leave the podium, invigorated,
the poem attained,
sit through the other readings, a necessary chore, applause
and repeated resonance of song through oration, words swallowed,
your poem dies,
and in the afterglow of handshakes and platitudes, no one remembers
yet twenty minutes ago they applauded, your senses swim, diluted,
the poem forgotten,
you throw out another masterpiece, swear to make it better next time,
the poem born.
Leaving Leavened Bread
Chop in a dicing fashion,
one bag of peanuts,
and feed to soldier ants strolling
past my back door step.
Bake one loaf Leavened Bread,
crumble when hot
into little balls and crumbs,
feed to the chattering populace
of thrushes and sparrows.
Take one bottle of Riverstone Chardonnay,
drink in the fashion of Papal whores,
the taste deliberate.
Dream in the noted key of B major
a French Horn
in a room built for a string quartet,
placated by restlessness
and the continual banging
on a fifty year old wall.