Four Poems, four/five/six/seven/eight sentences, more or less.

One

Dust from the feet of
crows
dead multitudes,

buried in the shallow atrium of the mind. He was 29 before he realized that to be a poet

all one had to do was write poetry,

             good or bad,

                       toss the stuff into the teeming churn

                                and take another drink, of the brunt poison, breathe the

"untrammeled" air,

and set fire to the world.

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Two

Not a day would pass,

without some vain clawing at posterity [a worry].

Putting the child to sleep,

there is no grandiosity,

             sometimes sweetness,

                     sometimes frustration, a sweaty unwanted nap, ending in darkness, prose.

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Three

A rusted chain gleams after

        being dragged sparking down the road.

his poor body, twisted in the night air,

against an abandoned fence post,

gaping wounds dried by the darkness,

                the price of fear of difference in

america.

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Four

All the good things that came together in my head,

I forgot.

Chasing them on the page,

I think maybe I should kill myself.

But if the germans couldn't do in the grandparents, why should progress get me?