Well Bottom Blues

Happy Smiling People Writing Poems

I am trying to write a happy poem.
Something Mary Oliverish with
love and epiphanies and rainbows 
and flowers and butterflies 
landing on my hand and—
all that shit.

My first attempt came out: Happy Smiling People
Holding Guns.

That's not it.

You can't say you hate Mary Oliver.
That would be like saying you hate
the Easter Bunny.

She is certainly talented and
her poems are very extra special lovely.
I can't deny that.

But I'd really rather not.

I've spent too much time
reading Ginsburg’s Howl with
Bob Kaufman’s eyes while
drinking like I'm sitting with
Bukowski. I am pushing through
Against Forgetting after finishing
Andrea Gibson's The Madness Vase.

Best I can do:
my unfenced Alyssum border
is trying to conquer the lawn
of weedy greedy St. Aug,
flowers for the win over
suburban landscaping
and it's almost Spring.
It's icumen in

Loude sing Yahoo!