At the Hasty Poets Conference

I write hastily or not at all. I let the roots
dangle all over the place. I stop
to think and think so hard
I push my ballpoint pen into my thigh
without realizing it until I
take it out to start my high-sheen, low-cost
prose. Oh well, I go and on I go
words like carrots, dirty, frayed—no time
to spray them all around. The wood I cut
welcomes knots and bumps and how about's.
I'm a good will hunting terrier
who needs something to chase, rough
rough. I am afeared, spring storms
dangling steeple, walking talking do-nothing.