1.
Trust me: you don’t want a castle.
The worst kinds of people live in castles,
survivors encased in sweating stone.
Instead, tear a hole in the street.
Locate a bunched up, wrinkled cabin.
Smooth it out on the ground.
Climb inside and fall asleep.
Make a fire and smother yourself in conflicted sleep.
Wake up: you’re bunched and wrinkled.
Rekindle the fire with your cabin.
Climb inside and fall asleep.
Burn it down and in a blanket of ash, asleep.
2.
Make a shadow.
Make a second poem to echo what you liked about the first.
A castle poem,
a seed poem,
a sentence fetish,
a mere shadow.
Use red words
and blue words
yellow words
and red words.
Form words and
wonder why a shadow forms.
Wonder why a shadow forms
and take a deep breath,
sunglassed,
wandered,
parched and high,
running and searching for a shadow that’s behind you.
Make a shadow, make a second poem to echo what you liked about the
first.
***
Michael R Bernstein lives in Takoma Park, Maryland where he writes, makes music, lives with his family, and owns a record shop.
Rejection Letters 