Poetry (because someone asked...)

I don't write poetry. Well, that is to say, I don't write poetry anymore. Rather, I choose to put all my poetic words into the form of a story now. I don't understand how to write good poetry. Maybe no one does. I feel as if I am missing fundamental tools and therefore have abandoned it all together. Interestingly enough, the other day I discovered the last 4 finished poems I ever wrote. They were written approximately a year and half ago. In continuing last weeks embarrassing entry on worst records I still own, here are the last three poems I ever wrote. They are all without title...get ready to cringe...

she sits awkwardly
on a stool speaking
into a phone with
a language i cant understand.
it jabs at my ears uncomfortably.
her swollen belly is now demanding
attention
but its not quite ready.

outside everything is wet and
people hurry by unaware.
there shopping for sweaters
and shoes.

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he tells me she paints and shows
me her work when she is standing
right there.
tells me her typewriter is really
nice, an old smith-corona, she is studying
philosophy and is learning hebrew, been to
europe and
knits him scarves.
"great" i says.
but i got a decent typewriter too
and she wont sleep with him.

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i found some old sheets
i used quit a bit
but not anymore.
they saw alot of sand, dirt, sex, semen, tears,
a little blood, hair, fingernails, cat hair,
alcohol, food, and many other things.
they kept me warm good and well.
unlike me however they can be washed clean.
oh heavy memory...oh god...make me a detergent
for the brain.

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did it spill out of
her mouth?
get washed down cobblestone
roads and bleed into the
ancient river?
spill spill spill

her thighs are cold.

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