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I'm going to end
with an ars poetica.

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Since I started with the
one from Trailer Trash,

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I'm going to read one of
several that's in Via Negativa.

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"Ars Poetica."

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"This is the poet I imagined
strapped to my back as I

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dive from the
Cessna or wrapped up

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erotically in a purple harness
with the width and length

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just right.

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Just write, the angel
of mercy or routine

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bangs down the door, a
hitch in his giddy up.

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Just write, smashes
the bee to the window.

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Every week I lug this
poet to the coin-op

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and play the slots
of dirty and clean

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while listening to the
game show sonatinas

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where my imagined poet wins what
is behind doors one and two:

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fame and glory and a
stackable washer dryer.

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The poet ascends marvelously
to Devil's Peak and yells,

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'Geronimo!'

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The poet is naked
in Dead Man's Gulch

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and only lolls about in love
under doting stars on Heavenly

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Mountain but once
or twice a lifetime

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and is sure to spare the
reader after book two.

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In a bind, the poet always
unshackles, bakes a file

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into a cake, knows a thing
or two about striptease.

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The poet has down pat a clove
hitch, a prusik, and a good slip

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knot.

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Always on speed dial, he'll show
up in a Miata with the roof down

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and say, 'Get in loser, we're
going out/ on the piss.'

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and 'Have you met my
very single friend July?'

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with a nudge to the breast
of a beautiful stranger.

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When I grow old,
as old I'll grow,

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the poet furnishes an amuse
bouche of death knells.

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'Fear not,' and
'it will be kind.'

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and keeps me from Nero- like
claims of the world's losses.

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He'll take my lily-white
hand beatifically like a lamb

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or a gavel and lead me to the
grand laundromat of souls,

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and with precise timing,
take his leave of me."

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Thank you.