Good writers

god, it’s bukowski
and vonnegut again—
I can see it—coming out
of my fingers like pus
from a pimple;
I should burn all
my bookshelves. should cut
a hard cross on the bite.
there are two kinds of poison
which do the same thing
(they both kill you)
and ee cumming too though less often lately
and a little bit
marianne moore
though less often even
than that. the worst
of good writers is bad writers
trying their shoes on.
feeding flowers
dyed water
their petals go
blue. don’t read
any writer
who wrote well
originally. you’ll just
want to write
and you’ll write
just like them.

I am always wanting to go somewhere

and I think of myself
in a city far
off, and sun-
light through gaps
made by angled
irregular buildings.
streets falling open
and boxes of apples
from a streetcart
collapsing to broken
knee cobblestone.
reddish brick walls,
dust staining with orange
charcuterie, arranged
in the jumble
of second-hand books
stacked up
upon second-
hand bookshelves.