Bad News, Good News

Sometimes I delude myself Thinking I'm writing poems, but then I read somebody elses And I get so blown away, and I realize again: I'm not really writing poems; I'm just building houses out of cards; Forts out of chairs and blankets; Making an out of alphabetical order dictionary Missing all the best words. I could shrivel up from the white hot jealousy But I also pay secret homage inside, Kneel down to that other writing Take off my hat because That's real, that's soulful, that's full of vitality and meaning: I'd pray for a blood transfusion with your blood I'd beg for a brain transplant Or at least a telepathic exchange for a fortnight, Not that any of those can help with my problem- Like Salieri, I'm not so lacking in discernment, As to not recognize true genius- Unfortunately my senses are fully intact there. So even though I leave nice comments on your smoking stuff.. Never think for one minute, that I would not enjoy Hearing news of your death.