A journal of narrative writing.
Poet on the Run

When cops pulled me over they asked

for a list of poets who loved my work.

I couldn't remember any at the time,

with handcuffs and jail time disturbing

my thinking, and all my chapbooks

were at home, their writers' blurbs

spotlighted below my photograph,

fairy godmothers who transformed

my pitiful pumpkins into poetry. 

They told me to step out of the car,

but I couldn't stop, even for death.

I promised the bookstore I'd read

and couldn't disappoint the five fans

who roamed the aisles in raincoats

waiting to flash my every word.

The police shot at my bald tires,

so thin bullets passed through them,

and exploded the back window into

shards, like my psyche when tasks

keep me from writing at work. 

News cameras scrolled my words

on their screens, Amazon immediately

showed a rise in my books' sales,

from nothing to first on the list.

People held free verse signs, rooting

for me to escape formal prisons.

The poet laureate accused authorities

of discriminating against me,

for liking lines over sitcom dialogue

and refusing to speak like the movies. 

I knew I could continue speeding,

through the city, past Barnes and

Noble, over the canyon in my future,

where the gap between things as

they are meets the one that ends me.

I'll be arrested by flashing lights

on my tombstone, the selected

works of my corpse ignored for

showy criminals of the present,

who remember me for a tragic life

while they steal everything I owned.