2020-10-18 06:56

San Francisco Note 11

(August 2002)


“Poetry is never Compromise.”
Where was she when she wrote this?

I wear a borrowed sweater and drink
borrowed wine. I write at a borrowed

desk with a borrowed pen. The paper
is my own. But I even borrowed these

words. Will she want them back? “Be
very concentrate,” said my Russian

violin teacher. Be very concentrate.
I will borrow her as well and lend

it all to you. I was here when I
wrote this. Where were you?


the fear is my fear
is that I’m living wrong

the wrong friends or no
friends staying in

when I should be out
prowling for the satori

of San Francisco or Minneapolis
or Charlottesville ordering

in when I should be
making reservations

living someone else’s
life or mine as seen

from some judgmental
fool’s point of view

but I am not a wrong
cloud or a mistaken leaf

I am not a flawed fiction
coaxed from someone’s discarded

notebook so I go on and
form my letters as I choose

and drink this borrowed wine
no one is friendless who

stays free in strange cities
and poetry is always free


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