Jim Ferris

The Hell He Chooses

	for Stanley Plumly and Paul Guest

I only have a small piece 
	of paper on which to write 
		what I hope will become 
a small poem. The great journal 
	of poetry publishes 
		a noted poet’s poem 
making fun of no having fun with 
	no just using a quad poet 
		calls him twice the para of old – 
that’s poetic. Noted poet is good, 
	a winner, he can write whatever 
		the hell he chooses, they can publish 
what they like, and if they’ve not liked 
	anything of mine yet still that lets 
		me write this small thing from a 
disinterested disaffected
	disjointed disarticulated 
		or is it just plain disabled 
perspective – I’ve already 
	filled my small piece of paper 
		and scrounged another 
cadged it the way that disabled 
	guy cadged people’s attention 
		in that poem – and I wish 
I had a scooter that could take 
	some of the damnable stress
		off my hips and back 
(or should I say the hips and back – 
		through specificity, 
right? Where does the close paren 
	go, that poem in 
		the famous journal 
has discombobulated
	if not disarmed me, 
		I don’t know why 
I let things affect me like this, 
	I try to stay open to where 
		art takes me, poem, I’m yours, 
usually I think it’s my fault, 
	my failure, when I can’t go, 
		this time I don’t think so.