Let’s come clean.
I hate my legs.
Right: reduced to almost nothing.
Left: a frozen carrot,
whittled by scathing eyes
‘til its surface ice
turns to sand I can sweep.
There is no one to blame.
Just fate
waxing floors.
Luck slipped.
Just fate
pouring rocks in the soap.
When I wash the flesh
of honest worms,
they tear like sheets of phyllo
on the nut-sweet-meat of art.

It’s really sweat, but I shall
not argue the point,
because I must write.
Fight my way upstream toward pride.
This is, yup, the hardest poem
                     I’ve ever done.
Feeding blood to the leeches
on the spit-shined shore
of an ivory page.
Proofing is impossible so typos stay--
poured fast in concrete seas.
"I hate my legs. I like my words."
"I hate my legs. I like my words."
Coyotes on a rage with owls.
Bat wings echo in a cave.
I fill the cups of shadows
with dark, dark darts.
Right! Left! Write!
So, this is how a poet howls.