NOT THERAPY


Sometimes you lock into some other's line of vision

let's call it today's "subject matter"

Some blessed
helmet of eyes

child left in the grocery store

the sister who got to fly to France

then there was that thing her father
said that hurt her . . .

puts a dent in your heart everytime

shovel like some
demented dragon . . .

sinuosity of the deformed psyche

it has wings
you drive a Honda

Mediocrity is simply a fact

not therapy

not the fault of your priest

Pressed to murder for food

you might put your lyre
in a crate and run over it

Somebody invented glass
and they made a room out of it

for you

and a lock

the absolute opposite of zero
isn't poetry

all these fresh graves

and not one animal is praying