From The Archives: Poetry Schmoetry

By the pool,
almost in April,
I sit in a kind of a white glare,
holding a pen, squinting,
and I think of cigarettes.


I wish I’d remembered sunscreen,
but I’m not leaving till I harmonize my own cellar door.
There’s a dictation going on,
and I yield to it with a grin.


Pausing
only to scratch a light-sensitive birthmark,
I grab for the story.
The intonation is rather pleasant,
and I’m not trying for the next Ezra Pound, anyways:


Earlier today
two teenage American boys
followed me on Dana Street
ukulele-serenading,
and even thanked me for it.

I did well in university,
but the very lore of lyrics
is mustered by empirical skill alone.
Who am I
to argue with such kaleidoscopic moment?!


I flinch not
when the poolboy comes for maintenance.
I wanted those tables washed
since it last rained
so I could come here and write.


Longhand,
sly as a sunburn,
almost in April...
Good weather is responsible for so much bad poetry.
Gladly, this is not the case.

March 29, 2011

Mountain View, CA