Saturday, April 04, 2009


Because I could care less these days
about poems or writing poems, 
they tumble from the tummy easy-
like, which is weird because
both my kids were ripped and torn
from me like MacDuff was 
from his mom.  Maybe they'll 
be cops, or thespians, when grown. 

Also, people talk about 
language like it has its own
address, somewhere foreign but
recognizable, like
Canada. I don't get
it. Language is like skin 
or air. Wear it. Breathe it in.
It matters when it keeps us here.

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