‘The biography of the author claims his poems to be
“Highly personal” and “deeply private”, as if no one who
Writes poetry really writes that way. I can’t think of a poet
That writes non-personal, non-involved poems. Maybe Rod McKuen.
They all write highly introspective messages to the sub-conscious,
Letters to themselves. There are no comedy poets, no horror
Poets, no pulp-fiction poets. Not that I can think of.
Who’d want to read that? People would revolt if they were
Forced to lay down and keep still for that kind of tripe.
Or, maybe not. People watch all sorts of heinous garbage on TV.
I watch all sorts of heinous garbage on TV. None of us are immune.
Our minds are open-sores, ready for multiple infection.’

She read these lines, finding them very personal, and was immediately
In love with me. I could see it on her face. She made a strange ticking
Motion with her cheek, like she was having a fit, and then tried to
Catch my eye from the audience. She pretended that I had written those
Words just to attract her, called this reading just to trap her in my lines.
I began to get just a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t pretend she
Was wrong. She knew the score, she knew my tricks. She’d read my work
And, it being highly personal and deeply private, knew just the kind of things
I was capable of as a man and a fool. She had my heart and soul between
Paper and binding glue, and that makes you just another target.
I began thinking of lilacs blowing in the wind to distract myself, since Imagining the audience naked (that old trick!) would not fit
This situation appropriately. I imagined them coasting
In the bobbing motion of the waves at sea, like lilacs do
When a light breeze comes up and nudges them out of the complacency
Of photosynthesizing and displaying their sexual organs for use
By random passers-by, the sluts.
And, then I jumped into a second poem, effectively
Sealing my fate with this woman and any number of others in the crowd.