Tesla Rose 32 Months:
Some rules have been established: you’re not to ride
your Skuut inside the house, it scratches the floor,
but there’s always gray areas, for instance
you get a rise out of Grandpa by eating
your own boogers, yuck! which encourages you
to expound upon that subject from the car-seat,
and when we get to Mommy’s house you ask her
if you can play with her change purse, she assents,
sure, on the table, don’t want mess on the floor,
so you dump the change purse like money from heaven
right on the floor, and Mommy asks, Tesla Rose,
are you looking for trouble? and you say “yeah,”
mounting your Skuut, “look ma, I’m riding the Skuut
in the house,” wheelies glisten into kitchen.
You’re seeking limits, bold enough to break them.
Transgression is an essential nutrient.
I’m feeling rejected because I was left out
of the list of Bay Area poets who
were left out of the latest anthology
good-heartedly compiled by Ron Silliman
on a blog page while everybody else is
busy networking AWP, I
sit here feeling sorry for myself writing
a sonnet whispering interior rhyme
while all the time great winds, yes yes I know, don’t
batter me down with your one-syllable words,
don’t illuminate the garden suddenly
with taciturn indeterminate sunlight,
don’t rearrange the whole landscape subtlydon’t brandish your absent presence so boldly.