These new poems that I'm writing are toward a third collection.
And the collection seems to be concerned with love
and the perversions of love, love that is thwarted,
love that is frustrated in some ways.
The working title of the collection is Needs.
This is a poem called "Story of the Man Who Is Never Invited,"
and it's about someone who is never invited to parties.
"He walks in, his clothes dark, the ramrod of his spine
never more arrogant.
He speaks and the women move away from him
as if his mouth were a wound.
He shows his teeth and the men see tombstones.
But they think he's a menace they can handle,
they think they could throw him out as they could one man.
But he's every man who has ever been omitted
from any list, the vengeance and just one of his arms
could destroy a city.
He pours himself a drink, cocks his head as if ready to speak
the underside of speech.
By now they are huddled in corners.
He has dreamed of this moment, dreamed of someone brave enough
to embrace him, wise enough to know
he could be ruined by kindness.
No one moves.
He starts with the lamps twisting
them indistinguishable from coat hangers.
He shakes a man's hand until it's a little white rubber
glove.
And all the while the others are screaming,
unaware of how much he needs them,
how much he would love them if they knew how to stop him."