Good, nurturing & devastating poetry
is but a rorschach test
of impulses & sounds
strewn about like I Ching sticks,
resolving their formations
like weeds in a cruelly pruned garden
or wildflowers making cracks in the asphalt
of human straight lines

Nasty good-boy poetry
or venomous pretty maid verse
can't become more than a slight irritation

- and a new year
is just the same old hill
talking to itself

In the end,
all I crave is central heating
to die in
and flames to consume the left-overs