Sonnet (Response to justified criticism)

Let’s pretend the people serenading 

you aren’t just me and my coterie of loyal drunks,

and the song isn’t just a string 

of pop culture references

intercut with loose narrative and plaintive beat-boxing.

There’s blood in the meadow.

Small birds fly out of the fog 

into the mouths of larger birds.

I need to be more responsible in my art.

Right now, there’s a portrait of you in my garage.

I blow smoke out of a hole in your mouth

for realism’s sake.  I drew you without thinking 

though:  Your eyes are filled with pain

but can never close and sleep.

Sonnet (I dreamed I was a cowboy)

I used to feel significant,

like that time we built a bonfire

on the beach, and that guy kept tearing off

strips of his pants to keep the fire going.

It was like being in a fable

or an absurdist play.

You said people shouldn’t cry

at songs when unmoved by the cruelty of their own lives,

while I claimed pathetic fallacy

was itself an act of compassion.

We were riding a great, impenetrable cloud.

You kept refilling my drink,

wishing me the heaven

you didn’t believe in.