Dear Kevin,

Author's Note: This poem was written in response to a poetry collection by Kevin A. Gonzalez called "Cultural Studies." The collection was both aggravating and inspiring, thus the hard but tender feel I was going for. It is only a draft.

Dear Kevin,

I suppose all of your pain makes it okay to be a prick? But that’s no way to start a poem, is it? I’ve already filled all of the question mark cups allowed—soon the bartenders in my workshop will cut me off. Drinking words is a tired metaphor we both still serve. Let’s move on to places—I’ll sip New Glarus, you can savor San Juan.

An ampersand is just a child curled up & hugging his knees. I am that child & you—you are nestling in its curves, nursing your mitt hand which I’m sure all of those women-poets told you was much too small for baseball. But it’s stylish to be vegetarian—it’s even more stylish to make fun of vegetarians.

Dear Kevin, it is okay to be afraid. Ghosts are merely rain-soaked jackets we have sloughed off too early. Yours is molding on the beaches of Puerto Rico & mine is frozen in the ravines of Wisconsin. We are all someplace-people. We all come from hate-filled question marks. We all have coat-covered ampersands shivering inside our chest cavities.

First, I should have been a chemist.
Then, a politician.
Now, an environmental engineer.
I should have been many things.

untitled poem from October 13th

you open
your mouth

but only

sound
fell out.

Pantoum

We had the option to either write a pantoum or a sestina this week in poetry. I chose the pantoum, because I already had an idea that fit with the form even before we went over the sestina. The professor made me feel as though I had copped out (not intentionally, of course), but with the distasteful thoughts of Sophie Kerr looming above my head, every little lead helps. I may have given this one up here.

Anyway, this poem is probably one of my favorites so far. In response to all the pretension and ass-kissing you see here at school (and in the real world too, I suppose). My professor said it was reminiscent of Jane Austen, which I guess is a pretty nice compliment, considering I've never read Jane Austen.

How to Win

Don’t you want to know my name?
Oh you do look nice in those shoes,
how great it is to meet you—
and what wonderful work you’ve done!

You really do look nice in those shoes,
they totally flatter your figure perfectly
from that wonderful workout you do
now. I’ve heard it’s pretty tough

to flatter a figure in that but
you always do things with such ease.
Now, I’ve heard it’s pretty tough
to get a job like yours these days,

but little things like you can easily
get what you want. You look lovely—
to get a job like yours these days
is really all based on looks anyway.

Getting what you want, looking lovely,
this is all what you’re used to, isn’t it?
You base it all on looks anyway,
but by God why wouldn’t you—

you’re used to looking fantastic so
I’m not surprised you’ve done so well.
By God, you’re amazing! Won’t you
please tell me some trade secrets?

Okay, okay, I’m not surprised you won’t,
being the absolute best in your field,
the secrets aren’t always yours to tell,
but I’m still so thrilled you’re here.

You are, by far, the absolute best.
It is so great to finally meet you,
and I am truly thrilled you’re here.
Don’t you know my name by now?

Villanelle

The villanelle I wrote for my poetry class. I like the first line and nothing else about it. It's got a lot of work, but I did have a lot of fun with this form.

Watch me cleave this cleanly
like the good meat from a ham bone.
I follow the lines, discreetly

work around joints and muscle. We
eat by the bay window,
you watch light cleanly cleave

squares of yellow on the floor. Meekly
see me butcher the meal. I won’t
follow any lines when weak

with hunger. Do it meanly,
in the way I’ve shown
you how. Careful and cleanly

showing me up, you tweak
my style and claim it as your own.
You don’t even do it discreetly,

as if you were the only one hungry
for bodies fully grown.
Stop. Watch me cleave us, cleanly
following lines and not discreet.

Talk Fans the Flame

Paterson, Book Three, The Library, Part II

Fire burns; that is the first law.
When a wind fans it the flames

are carried abroad. Talk
fans the flames. They have

manoeuvred it so that to write
is a fire and not only of the blood.

The writing is nothing, the being
in a position to write (that;s

where they get you) is nine tenths
of the difficulty: seduction

or strong arm stuff. The writing
should be a relief,

relief from the conditions
which as we advance become--a fire,

a destroying fire. For the writing
is also an attack and means must be

found to scotch it--at the root
if possible. So that

to write, nine tenths of the problem
is to live. They see

to it, not by intellection but
by sub-intellection (to want to be

blind as a pretext for
saying, We're so proud of you!

A wonderful gift! How do
you find time for it in

your busy life? It must be a great
thing to have such a pastime.

But you were always a strange
boy. How's your mother?)

--the cyclonic fury, the fire,
the leaden flood and finally
the cost--

Your father was such a nice man.
I remember him well .

Or, Geeze, Doc, I guess it's all right
but what the hell does it mean?

--William Carlos Williams