poems are easy.
take one part midnight, one part journal
one circle of booklight and one dash of slurring handwriting;
add three parts anger or sadness or what-have-you.
mix thoroughly, whip with a wooden spoon (a cheap pen will do just as well), and allow to settle.
squeeze out in the looping shapes of words you’ve only just learned to harness.
let sit. serves one (or more, if you’d like an audience, but you should probably edit first).

words, squished into neat little patterns,
corralled and forced into (or out of) rhythm like a first-day recruit or marching band,
chosen for their matching edges or fluidity.
tap them. see if they’re rotten or ripe. smell them, if you must.
hold them to your ear. can you hear the ocean or the sewer?

it’s a matter
of the right shape, the right seasoning.
must the finished product be perfect? heavens, no.
more than this: it must be expected not to be.
it is an idea, rough-cut and bruising, put into its cheapest form
and yet still somehow peddled as fine gold.