Hello? This is Minnie

To Ashes: How do you remove yourself from your poems, which
to most, me, me am most, is yourself, in a form, in an intimate
revealing of signs. No longer a repository of felt experience

Give me another sign, cigarette, which goes, "spew!"
Having trouble being myself and seeing how it fights
like being alone should I blow up? What does Ashes think?
When I used to feel like smiling, I noticed that now, not so much,
and now it's like you can notice that through my poetry.

What were the seven courses Berryman took over there? And how ugly
were all these women he slept with? It was Minnesota the place of his
death and all these times I've been saying, no, the golden gate bridge,
which is wrong. The golden gate is merely a popular place for those to
jump but Berryman didn't die a popular death. Splish splash! His final
poem. With a crash.

I had a writing teacher back at UArts who made her class meet up at
The Last Drop cafe, back when the walls were still red,
to review essays.
I bought Lunch Poems by O'Hara
and was obsessed with name-dropping. N here and S this, L to me.
Just vivid in descriptions of the living city.
Lights and poles and parking spaces danced and cooed out at
pedestrians. Dogs all sorts would pile up.
Like their own piles, which get picked up.

Place an order just like that: two hot fudge sundaes in two minutes
carrying by phone a ding, Hell o?
This is Minnie, are you home? You're gonna drive me crazy.