Poets in the Rain

All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak
sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.
Crazy, suicidal, we know who they are:
Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas
the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale.
This group grows a Pinocchio nose.
At times I capture you here under control.
I want to inspect you.
All can be found in faith once
now gone in time.
With all your concerns, I see
your eyes layered in shades of green
confused within you about me.
Forgive me; I’m just a touch
of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle
Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly.
We don’t know if it is all worth it.
I have refined my image, and my taste
continues to thrust inside your crevices.
Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie.
Asteroid Ceres looks like you passing gas,
exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice
on a balmy rock just like yours.
I will wait centuries, like critics, to review
this fecund body of yours-
soiled, then poppies,
poetry in the rain.