How to be a Poet

To be a poet become a man,
leave the victim on the road.
Drag out his entrails,
the future exposed.

Dig out his heart,
too small,
twice broken,
shows signs of repair.
Lungs half empty,
breathed shallow air.

A cavernous stomach, ulcerated,
turning over a bitter cud.
Miles of small intestine,
tangled in a noose.
A colon constipated
with un-worked out life.

Feet blistered from running away,
legs that climb mountains,
but do not waltz.
One arm for shrugging,
and one for hopeless
one-armed hugging.

Two eyes, one defective;
tear ducts un-needed.
A mouth without voice,
but stiff lipped,
un-kissable,
sardonic smile.

To be a poet,
turn yourself inside out,
wear your organs
on the outside.