a good poem does not hesitate
and never pulls out
but rather
pulls you in
right up to that fleshy wall of what you knew and what is you and into something

no, a good poem does not lay you down
she wakes you up

for more
just as your soft eyes turn to cotton
and that last lash falls to skin

it jabs
a shoreline of crooked, edges

it burns white
turns fences to tinder
graffiti crawling hot up old buildings, a lashing of four letter words against eight cornered-doors
drives into signs that can never say what they mean to

she wakes you
from the inside

swears and cusses
stretching your lips
prying your eyes

it rides your spine
and melts your bones
you hang by your smile and die
a small death
but find the hands are not your own

a good poem is polygamous
a personal jesus

the hidden baby daddy to your immaculate conception

no gloves
a nomad with no reservations
no sexual preference

no, a good poem does not use protection
he touches with intention

a good poem is like a virus. it infects you. it multiplies in you. swarms. flows. if it intends to kill, it is a hunter only of extinct notions. apparitions. thoughts that no longer hold and have gained transparency. but more importantly. it intends to create. to stretch the small world in unimaginable ways. it flows through you. intangible as the seed that fed the universe. a good poem is far more than words, filed away. no, a good poem doesn’t lay. it burns, slow. and stays

September 2010 (Update October 2012)