two poems

 (untitled)

When you’re pacing

like a caged lion

over ramifications

of language in an

interlocutory order—

you know life is real,

you know poetry is real,

you know love and deceit

are real—

just a matter of if the

lock get’s unlocked.

(untitled)

Filing a writ in the court

is like approaching a huge door

with lots of different locks,

so you have to have big ring of keys

to open each one,

or that door ain’t fuckin’

moving on its hinges.

And when you’re in the library

searching and searching

for that one key you need

but heretofore don’t have—

to find it is testament

to hard worknrewarded by

the universe.