They wonder why he writes so much,
That there’s so few will ever read;
And what this strange compulsion is,
This all-embracing need —
But long he travelled through the shadows
Of the vale of night:
He first wrote just to breathe,
But now he breathes
So he can write
(“The Poet’s Fate” – 11/6/2014)
Cassandra writes far better than
I ever, ever could;
But keeps most of it in her mind
Where it does little good
Abiding with her cigarettes
And straight Crown Royal shots;
Anesthetizes her regrets
Picks off her straggling thoughts
For cynical and sexual
Is how she likes to be:
But yet beneath the skin and ink
Is pure humanity
She lives in an apartment
With a lingering touch of mold;
While I live in my luxury
Amidst suburban gold
She scorns me, but she’d do me
To submit me, to control:
As nightly, she must strangle out
The poet
In her
Soul
