The Only Reason I Write Is

I hit the wall as a painter, self-taught,
and was that painful? Both the teaching
and the wall. Still, I got the main thing out there

in a number of treatments. Contra-distinct-wise,
I had a lot of help learning poems. Which clearly
I’ve eschewed the benefits to be so gained. Nevertheless,

and besides which,
MOMA tried.

Every Now And Then

my loyal fans deserve a poem like a moss-covered canal;
a phosphor-streaked, pollen-flecked slab of ink that
sights in the single wisteria petal falling through the furiously thronging
crowd of no-see-ums, just above there where
it cuts me off

at the knees.