Poems from the Chapbook,

"The Dead Dance Like Compost"- By Tom Miller

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something inside me

 

longs to put

a part of myself

into you

 

and push

in and out

over and over

 

until sperm

issues forth

 

and your smell

your feel

 

those round

soft mother breasts

 

i want to hold them

pinch them

 

it's disgusting

really

 

that more than your mind

this opening inspires me

 

more than what you have to say

than your business dress

 

to have you beneath me

loving the grind and the grunts

 

the body rapture

the juices

the sweat

 

we are horrible monsters

primal monkey people

 

dog dolphin and

rhinoceros

 

i'm going to stick it in you again

 

you flesh and bones

you hair and lips

 

you thing like me

 

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i haven't written my sister

 

in three years

 

got a letter from her

the other day

 

she told me she hasn't

been able to make

the mortgage payments

 

her husband lost his job

 

now she and her husband

and the kids

 

may live in the car for awhile

 

she asked me why

i hadn't written

 

what had she done

to anger me?

 

nothing

gwen

 

you were always

wonderful

 

you don't deserve the life you have

 

you should be in a castle

 

under a rainbow

 

in a forest

 

where the weather is always

perfect

 

but sis

your brother's a fag

 

a poet

 

a bum

 

a drunken failure

 

he can't help you

he never could

 

all he can do

is read your letters

 

hope things will get better

and write a poem about it

 

a poem you'll never see

 

---

loving the work

 

i hate to force a poem

 

but this afternoon

i made a commitment to write

 

something

anything

 

i guess this is it

 

and you can tell

by the way i work my lines

 

nothing's going on here

except the page is filling with words

 

for better or worse

i feel good

 

at least i have

put down another one

 

sort of like

they do at the pound

 

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before i knew who charles bukowski was

 

i had been waking up

with the bottle

 

i never tried to be bukowski

not in life nor poetry

 

although when i read him

for the first time

 

i knew i had a friend

 

probably one who would

not befriend me in real life

 

he'd turn to me

in the tavern and say,

 

"kid, get out of here.

your poetry stinks."

 

if he said anything at all

 

so though i often write about drinking

and bars and troubles in life

 

i shouldn't ever be compared

in any way

 

bukowski was a better drinker

a much better poet

 

and besides

 

he's dead

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