Ina

I was lying in bed reading a poem when I thought of Ina
the poem itself didn’t remind me of her
but reading it did
(and lying in bed,
especially)

I thought of her reading poems in bed
and reading books and reading the New Yorker
(at the time I was reading many books
too
but no poems and no
New Yorker)

dirty tricks (writing)

you should only write when you need to
they say
only when you really, absolutely have to
if you have nothing to say
and don’t really need to
then you shouldn’t write
at all

the madman

he called her at midnight
and he called her at one
he called her at any odd hour

but he'd never call at five
and never call at six
not even seven for a happy hour

the crazies

the crazies
they wander around
with big eyes and big hair and big ideas
making things

and the others
they also wander
happy and healthy and loving and free
but they make nothing

so if you want to make things
you have to be a crazy
with big eyes and big hair and big ideas
but you can’t be happy
and you can’t be healthy
and I guess you can’t be free

but you’ll be able to make things
and you’ll be special
and the others will want to be crazy like you

and everyone will love you
and in death you will be loved
in your grave you’ll roll in crazy love
and the dirt will ooze with poetry

but you’re not alive to see it, really
and you’re not alive to taste it
so while in life you had big eyes and big hair and big ideas
only in death will you be free

New Year's congestion

I'm in a backwards New Year's mood
nothing to say
nothing to do but
to scroll through
a thousand photos of eggs.