8.26.99, midnite

OK all you writers
writing all you poets poting all you
linguists linguisting now
hear this          there is nothing
          wrong with you                    go back
to your regularly scheduled life.
be safe.  exit before
the traffic builds up.  this
is your last call.  there's no
reason to try to be famous.  we're
all heading the same way on
different tracks.  

*          *          *

my desk mess is
impenetrable.  my bills unpaid.  my
projects unfinished.  big deal.
keep bumping into others minds for all
I care.  keep counting
things.  ha-ha-ha
                                                  ha
I read a few poems that seemed
pretty smart.  
one was about vikings.  another
about a woman who turned
into a bird.  this one is
about neither of those things.
it's calling attention to
nothing.  It has no narrative,
no absolute truth
no rhyme or meter.  no
apparent form.  and certainly
no point.  I will take it with
me to the grave.
          I'm not even writing this.  you
are by reading it.

                    I'm giving it to you
because that's the kind of a poet I am.
I'm giving it to you because
I'm tired and I love you.
finish it and come out to play.

maybe the sunshine will
flavor your disposition with
festive shine.  or not.
manifest.
there's a seat.
sit.