PG-13 I’ve accepted my sentence as a soft language poet. A poet who doesn’t drink Jack Daniels or smoke cigarettes. A poet who drives a lawn mower, and wears a suit and tie to work. I can’t write a war poem or rage against the man. Oh I have tried angry poetry. I have studied the squalor of street people. I have gotten drunk at the National Liquor Bar, and tried to infuse myself with Bukowski, but I was born with a weak evil spirit. I buy the rounds, order the taxi home, discover the smelly fellow next to me has words as filled with hope and fancy as do I. I can’t write them apart from me. I cannot rage and foam and screw about them all. I am cursed by seeing myself in you.