by Mark Lazarus Gatti
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
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Make way for the trembling season,
when rebirth is issued,
and the earth is licking its wounds
from the cruel energy of the dead months.
Make way for the handsome man
who will penetrate and levitate
while you hesitate,
and then all is gone.
Make way for the poets
who write with your intelligence in mind,
but write more with your cash in mind.
Make way for me--I'm hungry.
Then . . .
I'll write you a poem.
Can you imagine that? A poem!
A poem, poem, poem.
I'll write you in and let you watch yourself
collide with my images,
and fall to mock seductions and bloated observations.
Your chance to be a literary star.
Your chance to move in metaphor
and hold hands with a tree
that digs personification.
A poem for you, if you feed me well.
Make way for the liars;
make way for those who warn you.
Beware of all of the above.
Am I in trouble yet
for making another one uneasy?
Is there penance for the one
who tells me to write
and laugh when the words
I make, make me a fool?