I WAS

(For Allen Ginsberg)

I was half awake when I
heard that the poet was dead.
Thirty seconds devoted to the man
in the middle
of the ten o'clock news.
I was searching for a line,
trying to find the missing link

between

stanzas. i was looking for
a sense of completion as he
completed his sentence
and closed the book.

I was wondering how many
others would pick up their pens
to scribble hasty tributes
before killing the light.

I was searching for my own words,
but borrowed some of his:
There, rest. No more suffering
for you. I know where you've
gone, it's good.

CANCELED

I didn't see anyone around, so I asked at the desk. Yes, it was true--the poetry event had been canceled. Attendance had been sparse the last couple months. I was annoyed, but then I remembered that I hadn't showed up for those previous meetings either!

We poets are a reclusive bunch--stuck in our own navels for too much of the time. We'd rather sit in a little room--like the one I'm in now--jauntily typing away for a potential audience of millions that we'll never meet, than go out and greet the 3 or 4 REAL people who might show up for a reading (one of whom got lost on her way to the restroom).

Pathetic, isn't it?

Well, that's my say...
Hey! How'd I get so much belly button lint in there anyway?

LET GO

Walking my dog
Has taught me
An important life lesson

When she does her business
No matter how it comes out
She never looks back

--Timoteo