Blood In The Field

ever notice the sound footsteps make
in a motel hallway?
the way the light from under the door
is light, just enough?

mr. smith fucks mrs. jones
and then runs off to wal-mart
to buy that anniversary card
for mrs. smith

hmmm, the selection is vast
sweet, yes, to keep the cover,
but not too sweet in case
the cover is blown

not to worry,
mrs. smith throws her arms around his neck
and says, "it's just perfect, Honey!"
while mrs. jones wears his cum
like a ring made of tin

i'd like to blow wal-mart to hell
and sentence hallmark to
clean up the mess

a heart should be a bird made of snowflake
fragile, flawed, unique
and exposed raw to the gale

we steal van gogh and call him our own
-while hearing in stereo
we steal dickinson having never sat
beneath that tree

art should be loved,
appreciated, admired,
touching us deeply
while inspiring
the art within us all


are you a poet?

then rip your fucking chest open!
tear out your beating heart!
slam it on the butcher block!
hack it to pieces,
bludgeon it tender,
and when it's good and fucked up
throw it on the wall in a bloody orgasm!

then, and only then,
fall on your knees, howl like a wind on fire
and weep unabashedly,
crying out, there! see? do you see? for fuck's sake, that is me!!
all of me!!

care not of the beholder
care not for the critics
care not even of the hurt-
care only for the beauty within real

but we hide in curtains
with only our socks showing
and in hallmark jingles
that snake-oil the unsuspecting

we cloak our own feelings
in the trickery of language
then call another's our own,
clinging to the ghost of absolution

it is bullshit i tell you
pure bullshit!
and i stink, same as you

there is no greater crime
a heart may know
than to plagiarize
and no poem beautiful
that does not bleed
whether in joy or in pain
from a bird made of snowflakes