i can't have a poem (part I) before i pee my pants

chadwick

what about when i can't
i cannot

what about not
and when i can't
i cannot

then you have the teapot going on & on as usual
and still
i cannot because i can't
but still tea leaf
little leaf of tea
and me not capable of anything
knees fried
knees & more knees

yet the tea wants me to want it and yet i do
i always do
the honey
the sugar in the raw
this brown little box
such greatness goes the crystals of brown blonde sweetness
and i cannot
and i can't because i cannot
this my exact song
and i ask where are the stones?
would keith richards be having a cup or seven of delicious beverage?
and tell me mr. richards
where can i find my whistling kettle
where is the water pure and exact
i'd rather a waterfall from the sky downward to where i am and is sitting
next to the puddle collecting without my shoes
something like a shoeless boy all innocent
having a sip of hot tea on a even sunday
this the dream sent dreamt

and i cannot can't
and then when is the chance to chase
and when caught which is most likely to be years away because i am so slow
yet the butterflies make me their friends
they tolerate my naked broken bones
as others throw piss
and when inside the grand elaborate quiz
such an arrangement to the skulls of weakness
this is when all butterflies go away
as if north heading south towards my pain
all flowers yellow now insane and still
no summer rain

and i cannot
i can't
all the while riding crooked wings of what is not destiny
but rather miles known
and with cold skin

this the masterpiece hanging from my eyelids
backwards or forwards
beforehand or inside out
and in the advancing snowflakes used as crystal balls
the riding stampede of criminal or lawmen
somehow all heard is symphony
and regards of no more golden rod or summer lilly
no exit for the purple mounds and pinks and suns of all type blast through my simple core
i to have been unable to be capable
and in this confusing little pile of soil
sand or otherwise
i unlike all others
feel the end as if a soft breathed puppy
brand new to this air
brand new to this litter
and next to this clay figure
all driven into chaos by the sketch artist
where i beg for the tolerance of the moon
please accept i cannot
because i simply and without
i can't
and this

all of which is something from where cannot is fashioned from unharvested corn
ungathered in the pleasantness of emptiness