the sieve and the sand

My
Fingers
Ache
wanting nothing more than
dancing over valves
along a saxophone.
But if I were at home alone,
The ache would
blow away,
Most likely in the
key of Bb Minor.

i will never, ever
revise a poem after i
have dropped my pen
(or saved the document)

a poem is a moment in time
even

if

you spell
or punctuate it improperly

even if you fuck up on
some simile or metaphor
and none of it sounds
the way you’d intended,
because

chief

that’s the poem!
that’s life!
you do not have a time
machine so do not pretend
you do and rewrite what
has already been done
the best you can do
is make amends with
what just happened and
try and correct it at
the moment it goes wrong
but don’t you dare touch
my reality after it’s
been done unless you’re
willing to show me

notarized

documented

undeniable

proof

that you are,
in fact,
in possession
of a time machine.

on hedges where the green
grows so short it’s truly a green

and while

we dont play golf but we pursue
peruse the grounds smoking cigars
wearing jackets and beards we look
back on in our later lives
and think

“i have a mancrush on me in former
days. damn i looked good”

and we smoke ourselves into the floor
because thats what we do
we pursue excess as we peruseOURworld