-too many words-

I should ease-up on the word count.

the words aren’t numerical points

to compile in order to win the big game.

with that kind of logic what reasonable poet

would use too many words?

I should go easy on the words.

it's true. some expose themselves as redundant

although each has some historical merit.

I'll adjudicate them as I would

wayward company when they linger too long;

those who hang around waiting to be called to dinner.

those are the maniacs who drop by.

who drive me crazy.

who throw eyes like carnival knives

when you tell them to shut-up and go home

as if it was you who dropped by and not them.

I panic when there's too much company to manage.

as I see it, it should've been "too many people are living"

and not "too many people have died".

as I see it, an investigation should be ordered into the logic behind the lyric.

but yeah. I should ease-up on the word count.

                    I'll send some selected books of poetry to my son in Los Angeles

I've chosen 27 favored selections in all.

Some consist of rather short poems; one page and done;

Poems that hit like a flash of wet zinc dropped into

A vessel of molten zinc. (Don't try it.)

Others are long poems, not epic poems necessarily, but

Poems long enough to take-up 4 or 5 pages.

(Robert Browning ends his epic poem: "Fra Lippo Lippy"

With the line: "Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks"!)

11 pages for one poem! That's half a night right there.

I’ll advise my son that to read all 27 books in one night

Will be the same as not reading any.   Besides,

Nobody can, nor should read 27 books of poetry in one night.

Reading 27 singular poems will be too much to ask of a son in Los Angeles.

This poem alone for example will be excessive through a 12 hour sitting.

                   with tired blood 

looking back to where history dwells,

where pleasant dreams are inconceivable

and domesticated cats keep themselves company;

where everyone is condemned to an equal silence

circumventing their concerns of what actually is;

to where the ultimate decision has been made

and there’s no turning back leaving me to consider

the gathered who'll receive me un-clothed, un-shaven,

un-industrialized, and empty-handed?

what's that sound?–– Harpo!

what's this mist?

will I tumble to where another Hell is Hell

but by another name? –– or

should I gulp a few from the dusty old Geritol bottle,

reconsider the options and order in for Chinese?