Tired of meeting writers who don't
write when they want
to, like popcorn waiting, holding out
for the hottest streamed oil, only to have
the gas turned off, the flame withdrawn from blue

 

to that point where you must tell them they aren't
writers but dreamers possibly thinks of hidden,
sheathed thoughts that may bound within
the shell but nourish none
of us who see the twinkle in their candied eyes,

 

all ample, pooled of reflections and managed
taste and desire, but no willingness to stumble
and break the pencil
lead because an exactness was lost to a wordless thought,
one not fed by the trial of marginal
vocabularial gyrations of inopportune sunshine and the beckon
of friends curious as to your progress.  Want to take

 

a swipe at a canvas
and pause the pink glow of the afternoon
out in the buckled linen loosely
clinging to the soft air that filters past
stippled curtains of the 1950s, left
over the kitchen dirty dishes while the ear strains
to hear the intermezzi of radio-crackled Brahms.  Popcorn
floats in the half-water mixture of the sink
while the kernels, unpopped and still
sapping at the pasted salt, draw the oxygen
from the submerged bubbles until
the bubbles are no longer

 

bubbles but the last breath of the drowned
seeds of thought, unwritten and hull-less
at the bottom.  You still have to part
the lipid film to reach them, though dead,
to clean the pot and place it, waiting
for the next batch, in the classically bare cupboard; they have
been too heated to even germinate when they reach the final
garbage heap, but you can't tell them

 

that just as one never sees the writers
who won't ever write, wanting to
pop out a good tickling line against the ideas
and festivities of interruptions (life),
the bowed canvas as the curtains, limp
and unpopped--the film is too opaque,
the pencil too finely sharpened.