I HAD THAT IDEA

[Here's the kind of poem you write when you are sitting at your desk at work, thinking about war, trying to be a good Situationist but ending up somewhere between wistful magical realism and dreaming if dim Guadelahara. Or maybe Frank O'Hara, or Rimbaud in Harar. In any case, this poem is hereby dedicated to my blog, Bloggity Blog, who didn't appear to enjoy my previous Beefheartish offering.]

I had that idea, too.
Write the life but according
to principles not usually associated
with life, such as...

And shut off all
auto-correct features.

There is the sound of straining
from the other room. That was the one
vacated by the terrorists. They were brothers
from a little village in Italy. It is now
occupied by an opera singer
with chronic constipation.

Same thing. Taking the pleasure
out of your work. I had serious reservations
about my own writing before I started
this. This talking.

Sometimes it is just
the hands hanging from twin flagpoles
emanating from my breasts. I could shine them,
wax them, spit on them, but they
don’t write,
just hold out for the rest of the day
until I couldn’t brag of them any
longer – usually by mid-afternoon, say 3 pm.
I’d drink more coffee then, check my emails,
play some on-line Yahoo! games, like backgammon.
My flagpoles not buckling in the wind.

My flags empty of wind.
My hands dangling there like flags.

Posted by Brian Stefans at October 16, 2002 02:55 PM