A Message from the Poetry Tourism Bureau

 
Let poetry be public
And written in the streets:
Throughout this vast Republic
And wherever poets meet.

In synagogues or churches…
In mosques and Buddhist stupas.
During late night food fight urges
Over Mexican chalupas.

In city parks and country farms
May poetry be written.
To light the dark or raise alarms:
And heal the great grief-stricken.

The time for prose has ended.
The time for verse is near.
We defend the undefended:
Give out poems as souvenirs.




Unsent Love Letter

 
Your eyes flash brighter than any coin—
And your smile makes me feel
Like I’m part of an underground economy.

This hamburger heart has softened into tenderloin
And though there is still much to conceal
The poems I want for you defy all modesty.

But I dare not write everything down:
The curves in your dancing lips
And the white flash of your bare teeth.

I want to be the verb to your adorable noun
And no disapproving frowning can eclipse
This final myth we may never complete.

Yes, for now, all of this is mere mythology.
No river, my dear, has yet been crossed
And no fearful vow has yet been spoken.

I am a vehicle with no more velocity—
A meaningful shiver where there is no frost
And a damn door that cannot be opened.

Unless you care to knock with your considerable charm
And behold, it unlocks as you enter on your own accord
And find me there willingly disarmed:
With no more shield and no more sword.