with flying pies in the face
rakes meant for Sideshow Bob
new frost on concrete stairs
ladders not properly secured

everything is a lie; what is a lie?
what can be excused; what must be forgotten?
when the blood is on your hands
the moment you say you’re innocent

1
you can go to bed and plan
to get up in the morning and dig a hole
and by noon, you can be done
this is not a good recipe for writing a poem

I’m reading Raymond Carver and thinking of my friend Michael –
not because he recommended Carver, but because
when he’s in his stride, Michael writes like Carver. I call it ‘me
poetry’. I wrote lots of it. Until I got tired of seeing “me” all the time.
Nonetheless, there’s something in the delicacy of Carver’s/ Michael’s ruminations,

You may talk about the beauty of Venice,
or you can visit the glories of Rome, but
for me there is nothing better on Earth,
than banana bread made at home.

Harpo Marx is my God
no longer
whenever I need Him
God is silent
except for some mournful hoots