The ladder leans on our wall
we clamber rather than fall
as snakes to the pit
we flit
...
why I am not a jazz pianist
inspired by Frank
O'Hara's Why I am not a Painter.
I'm a poet, at least
...
I sign your thigh
flourish my pot
belly as maybe
a sensual distortion
...
Long burgeons the last cello
swells with cut enthusiasms
where bud the swollen flowers
of being...
...
this -
fresh made
out of words
not found on a sign
...
The day the one-armed bandit
clapped his hand
and saw the face
he had before he was born
...