I have not shared here the poetry
of me brushing my teeth, the poetry
of my morning breakfast routine,

the story of the pills I swallow and why
I gave up shaving sixty years ago.
I am sure you’re curious to know

if I eat fried junk or funky vegetarian,
and I’ve not told you of my showers,
haircuts, and the removal of my

black rubber boots in the back
hallway that pisses my spouse off
after I’m done walking in the snow.

You are certain to want to know
if I go for beer or pot or both,
but my standard sexuality is cluttered

by the misdeeds of our known
male past. We have heard enough
of Juliet and Romeo. The future of

sex and love lies with the formerly
dispossessed. We Americans like
to think the future is more hopeful

than the past. Meanwhile I return
to telling you of the brand of cigars
I so dearly smoked, and the kind

of bikes I owned and rode around
on the roads of childhood. No more
here of mom and dad. Thanks to

Sigmund Freud for sending all us
artists on that never ending quest.
Have I told you of my houses? Did

I describe my cars and favorite toys?
Is the personal the only knowledge
we can trust in our misinformation

age? Only stupid poets are driven
by their hunger for money or fame.
Will I ever say enough on how the

will got me what I wanted and then
how storms of desire overwhelmed,
sending me down dark lost alleys?

I am very troubled and I’m sure you
you are dying to hear my horrid
little secrets. Oh, you have heard

it all before and you’re sick of all
the constant complaining? You say
you’ve got problems of your own?

Have you considered turning to
poetry to unburden your pain?
We can make each other worse.