My writing, and welcome to it.

I hear bowling balls when you
    walk by.
My knees quake--is it love?
Your gaze pierces me; a spear
    through my soul,
And as I watch, you bowl a strike
    In my heart.

The cat is on its face
Paper plates stacked askew.
Baby, won't you sleep oh won't you sleep?
No, I say;
    The boy has a mohawk.

John the Bass Player is trapped
Under the Volkswagen bus
He'd been driving.
Harry sits nearby, unscathed,
On a carpet of broken glass.
They talk quietly, waiting
For the Jaws of Life,
Which won't come in time.
"I guess I took that corner too fast,"
John says. "I always do."
"Yeah, well," Harry says.
He takes John's hand,
Gives it a squeeze.

O! Duck that quacks;
I see that you are content.
Death will overtake you
Like an ugly poem
    Crushing the world on two wheels.
O! Quacking Duck:
Please don't splash water on my cigarette.

Jim teaches writing up at the school.
He solves my problems for me;
His word is law.
("I'm a poet," he says. "I know
What makes people tick.")
I bring him my broken marriage--
Years of recrimination,
Accusation
And disappointment.
I bring it to him
As I would bring him
A busted sonnet.
I dump it on his desk--
(Coffeemug rings
    on the Chicago Manual of Style--
    is nothing sacred?)--
And,
"Fix it," I say.
He laughs and shakes his head.
"Mike, your life will never work
For the same reason
That you'll never write poetry.
You'll never learn
That every word counts."

As a bird I walk, a bird.
As a bird I fly, a bird.
As a bird I speak, a bird.
I am, essentially, a bird
With all rights and responsibilities
Commensurate with my avian status.