rain of gravity

the poet
sits as a
multitud
-e of ide
-as rain down
      toward them
      from all directions
thoughts / ideas /
 moments / memories /
all these things flying
around and the job
of a poet is to somehow
manage to pick and choose
which ones to allow through to
the paper / screen - thinking
of poems in the future that
are embedded in your
clothes - a leather
jacket ditty that
stays with you
all day - the
essence of
the poem,
the mood
invoked,
evoked,
evicted,
derelict,
desultory
days spent
dreaming in
preparation of
'the poem' or in-
deed - 'the moment'
when it all comes together
and the poem from me they'll
all remember is in the air.

stolen phrases. rhymes for
oranges. plans for phases,
two-story duplex poems with
a knocker instead of doorbell
buzzer modern contraptions.

poems as rain
w/gravity pulling
in all directions if
you stand back and
look at it. multi-
layered and
non-linear.

poems as de-
constructed
misconstrued
thoughts for
the reader
while it's
being written,
fresh from the oven
to switch again, freely,
from one to another,
these streams of
words falling in
all directions.

and as the poet at
the center of my
existence, with
words falling all
around me, i stop
looking at the lines
as they form and
think sometimes
about the me as
who i am in my
mind and the who i am
as presented to the rest of
the world and they don't
match. my avatar of my-
self isn't how i seem. is
this what makes the odd
so odd, the eccentric so
idiosyncratic?