doorbells, mornings and death or (If you are Cunt)

by Michele McDannold

listen
when you start writing from the brain
chuck it out the door
feed the cats with it
call it meow meow chow
w/ever
you’ve got to be heart, shit or balls
if you’re cunt
you better know how to translate
and yes, they’ll tell you to stop
and yes, they’ll have all kinds of reasons and critiques and
blowhard bullshit
you might even believe for awhile
it will throw you off
maybe you’ll take on an old fat fuckin mentor
start writing poems about doorbells, mornings
and death that does not
matter
and maybe everyone pulls a few chains now and then
and maybe everyone has a critic in their heart
and maybe not.
you could or could not say
‘and’ so much
it wouldn’t matter
style has nothing to do with depth
and
if you shovel the shit long enough
you might forget what was under there
you might forget where you were going
you might forget how you were getting there
one day you’ll remember
you wanted to go
you’ll remember
earth doesn’t taste like
dust
heat doesn’t feel like
pain
and passion--
doesn’t need to be developed.
it either sets your ass on fire
or doesn’t