Ink Tea Stone Leaf

It’s a package deal.

Rituals of the mind

Confessions, fantasies, and wishes
scrawled on composition paper,
stuffed in closets,
contemplated,
venerated,
read and read and read
with eyes and hands,
in a burning tank
obliterated,
ashes leaping from the coals
that glow beneath the wind,
obscenities erased,
the words obliquely
commemorated.

Enough already

Whatever, write a poem
about the phonies dancing
empty steps, pretending
plastic lasts forever;
they're never going to stop
and you will not be read,
but in the quiet days
it helps to pass the time
that otherwise would fall
to jerking off and drinking
memories of dances
through the wilderness.