There are holes in my poems.
These places are where I collect,
the sappy genuine parts of my poems,
unrecognized by a self
which still collects
here and there, shaping.
A wag's hornet firing on all
misdirection at times still splatters
against its mark.
This is almost what I like.
So I walk through the room,
suspicious, fragile, oblivious.
Wallflowers wish I'd disappear
and when I sometimes do -
well. Let's just say it's
castanet snaps at pooled airs.
They are all that matter,
hit the mark, at least confess:
a state of elation     occupy giddyspace
undefine non-sequitors     no such froth castle!
(Sure there is)     the inkcloud a blot

I truly guide not the muddy gush, the tics and pocked vapors
in these my narcotic huts and caves. When I was a young man ...

sang squeaky, and read this my poem aloud.