the way my poetry evolved

was Adam Gottlieb to

leave the song behind

because i started with

paragraph palaces

and stanza stampedes

and ended with

sand stone

cut into two lines

and sometimes

there is too much

pressure

pressing on my mind

and poems

that are supposed to

look like

anorexia in words

filing barely half a sheet

of paper

finds itself

scrawled onto

the back of

an envelope

Or sometimes

dare i say

in a book

i decided to

destroy

and am i supposed to find poetry in my desk

the one i sit at now

the one so nicely made

even as the rest of my room sits in disarray

am i supposed to find poetry

in the way my necklaces Tangled together

or the way a plastic night is imbalanced

or how about the broken clock that I mean to fix

or the old camera with snapshot memories of forgotten people

or should I find poetry in

mansions

silver and gold mixed

and eloquence