poem in progress

He says I write too much poetry about myself
I wonder if it’s about the poetry the
my
selfishly I predictably imagine it’s about me
I sigh
I leave the room vanquished I doom myself naked
I tell the same story break
Into smaller parts to swallow whole
Soul shoved down his throat
Wash it down
Eat me
Gloat

I soak
That what he says he says over me
Presuming a twisted tangle for a dance
A stance about subject submissions
A beginning middle and end
And a dancefloor way more than I had envisioned

And?
Well I am just not interested in that
The fact that you deem yourself such
That my hand is being forced
You said “too much”
Poetry
About
My
Self

I say this is not your spoken word poem
From someone known to some who may know him
Not some genesis song
Some this was the day let’s show’em
This is the howl of wind
Sifted through cuts in the armors of golden dreams
The only record of that particular battle
Ever found
Carving the place of the uttered and said on the ground
This, takes care of its own sound

True
Some details have fossilized at the cusps of my mind
Almost phantom-limbing it
Yes there have been knives but there have been wiser
Writing instruments branded here
Clear and ruthless dice
Breathing loudly on the page

I am teaching myself restraint
Letting things drip in heat and wait
Get sloppy
Deteriorate into singulars
The one laugh
The one tinge
The one
Last night to me was a whole epic story of us humans
For instance there wasn’t any sex
But it seemed like the light was wet

It will read "surrender was never a choice"
Its simplicity in narcissism will once again irritate
Self-martyrdom will be suggested as possible critique and
Agreed upon in uniquely inventive ways
Colorful language for a somber occasion people will say
Then they will remember it was to my face that they said
You are not
Pen but page
Not the right age
Size prize not coming backstage
They will remember a muzzle
We tried to reason with her they will say
Before it came to this
Warned her
Try journalism or history fucking rewrite a play
She wanted the tortured selfishness of verse
Excessive
The hearse will look tricked out from below ground
Watching them mostly cry
I’ll be taking notes
For the next poem

Just
Like that just like dead
But kicking I face myself I tinker
The entire world my squinting
Dazzled at the freedom ring that’s thinking
All my thoughts for the me that’s busy
Writing too much poetry

What Is The Topic, Or Chat Poem#1

where you been at?
why you don't bother to grin back?
in the wind that bites, i'm bitin cigs
car seat singed my lungs lend their life to a fight with reckless thoughts

i have been the wreck and less the thought
i have been the wind
i have been the lost
i don't remember the war that i know was fought but mostly
i have been

surrounded so I have no choice but surround you

the dance is of the surface
the word is of the depth
i move in close into the border
it blends the sweat
the bitterness

find me where winters rest
and blend with memories of my kin
the winds carry them for me

mine travel in the brain
some in the vein
mostly in the way you say I talk too fast
I carry them first
and myself last

sometimes they carry me
like a weapon
like a revenge

and sometimes I catch you
quiet and still
like the end of a song

The New Year, New York

I like walking west on the wide streets towards my 1 train. Maybe 14th or 23rd, if it is late enough to begin to be deserted but not yet be terrifyingly empty. I like to feel myself at all sides isolated, by windy wide streets. On a night like tonight, it's a solid cold squaring off against my back, each side of me, my face. It's the physical equivalent of successfully overcoming writer's block, the blank page here being the sustained silence deep inside. I walk in it, and that walk--the cadence of my heels on the empty pavement, the shifting shoulders caving into my frame to keep me warm, the hair blowing however it wants, the way I think my face looks to everyone it passes (how does it look?)--that walk becomes the story telling itself to me.