Poet-S-Two Poem by Walter Burns

the keyboard's a graveyard
each letter a tombstone
I push them to flush out
the demons within

I might skip one in ten
but I never get past
three worn pages
of Plath
before I'm down on my knees
shoving my head in the computer

Cobain,
you're in utero
through the tubes
in my radio

disconnected

disaffected

confession recital
dress-
up rehearsal
for a play that may
end poetically

Cobain and Plath
sitting in a bath
washing their cuts down the drain
with the radio crackling
in the skin simmering soup
we're all on the same page again.