i need a poem

i need something
anything perhaps i'm bored and flat
i'm getting fat and flabby
waiting around for
another idea to take me
into a stratosphere of sound
i'm too silently wound
tight as a drum and dull
my arms hurt like hell asi work the keyboard
my eyes catch a glimpse of film
sex with sound, wow!
and i think with a laugh
perhaps what i need isa good fuck like that!
but then sigh out loud
'cause that's no cure at all
for what pains me
it's too temporary
too corporeal and
it's violent as hell

no, i need a poem
that fits me better than
any sexy trick in the book
it assuages my sense
of worthlessness
it gets me out into
public life and sends
waves of being into this
otherwise tepid nothingness
needs needs needs hound me
day and night and keep me
fighting, seeking, hoping for
something fresh, something true
to wake me up out of
this lousy nightmare
but a good poem like
a good cigar takes off the edge
sucks out the foam from
my diminishing brain
and lets it breathe again

a good poem
i need a good poem
could be yours but
ought to be mine
i can't live my life without writing
i don't want to live if
i can't think to put words to it
to that which has no wordsi love my children
my friends
i love my man for what he is
but a good poem is like
being able to breathe
after suffocating
like food after a rescue
from seven days in the desert
with no umbrella no water
a good poem doesn't
come after prayer
it comes on the backs
of all the bad ones that
i've writ in despair
it comes when you say
enough of this crap
this laziness and pain!
i'm gonna write one today
and to hell with this brain!
ok i can't think,
i admit it!
can barely feel to think
ok i'm caught like
a stupid seal
in a tuna net and
no one to rescue it
so what?
i'll act as if i am able
try a line or two
break out of myself
and force a tune
even if it's dissonant
as hell and obtuse

a good poem
this is not a good poem
but it's a poem on which i'll build
one of the weak ones that
lead to success
that bring me to myself
in this dark place
there will never be another life
in which to do it
never another moment
like this one, seize it!
and what comes of it will be
a testament to my will:
and for that
a nod toward heaven
and a nod toward hell
just for the thrill
just to know i'm alive that i write!
just to know something anything!i will try my hand
i will pry open my
corroded, aging brainand a poem will be had
good or bad
pas de grave!
it's how i know what i know
i write it and it simply is
my body broken for thee
take of it and eat
and remember me


Moineau, Writing. Watercolor by Ron Walker.