did you know that I edit these poems after I post them?

Yep, I look these bodies over and i change them all the time.

It's a phenomenon that only now I am starting to pay attention to. I am staring in the face of a poet's addiction. Tension, tightly strung rope, each fiber a rifle. Poets are like those trainers on reality TV who are just down straight disgusted by flabby, lazy bodies. I am also asking some cream curdle bodies to work out eight hours a day, sometimes more. I am holding up their drunken skin, close up to the TV screen, the skin that will get tucked away by stitch and knife. I am performing plastic surgery, except without plastic. Just desperation and compulsive vision. I am sewing up the muscles and sometimes even rolfng them into place. I am the sweaty doctor's eye that can see your perfection, sweet little poem. I can see how you almost ring out like 10, 000 bells on key (minutes before snow), (and never under water). I can see how you almost are about to make your wings finally work. I can see how with a few tweaks i am going to make electrons cause fire in a glass. I can almost ask the rock to stop in mid air--I saw it wait before it hit the beach. I guess this is a an apology of sorts. I know how unhealthy it is the way I watch you in your virtual and paper houses. I know you feel like subjects of an experiment. Staring into your the windows. Trying to see how long you can stand on one foot. Or how well you plan christmas for the family. I know you feel me hovering over your reading shoulder. Over your cutting carrots. I am trying to gauge how perfect you are. What can I say? You are so close, it makes iodine stem cells in a petri dish somewhere quiver up a smile of worth. Maybe tonight, instead of showing off your ponytail and coy gestures, you might invite me in for dinner and let me measure your ankles?