In my family of origin,
laughter was tears.
Anger was forbidden.
Play dangerous. My brother
and I ran different ways.
He made money. Stole it.
Flew through the skies
in a borrowed airplane
and crashed. I hid out
in a room, got drunk
on words, breathed Melville
till I jumped over the moon.
Lick the pages, poet-man,
suck down black ink.
Rest your head
on a copy of Rumi.
john mann poems 
I like the exasperation and the exhaustion, or simply the emotion in this poem. the contrast between the siblings is stark and ironic. I enjoyed reading this one. Of course I have to come up with at least one complaint, or, more accurately, a mild uncertainty, and this is the final line. Some readers won’t be familiar with Rumi, in which case it doesn’t contribute to their reading. . Other readers familiar with Rumi, who is so ethereal and emotional, will trail off with Rumi in their heads as the poem’s afterglow. I want my final association with the read to J. Mann!
Hi, Steve. Thanks for the good reading of this poem. Really appreciate it.
I see your point about the name of the poet. I was really thinking (remembering) the need for solace, the need for rest, for escape. Berryman–say, *The Dream Songs*–would be more expressive of the Mr. Mann thing, the need to explode off the page and throw bricks at the world and generally go fucking crazy. I just couldn’t figure out how to make the name fit.
Hope you’re well and happy down in Burlington. Or Colorado?
Best, John
On Tue, Aug 22, 2017 at 3:04 PM, john mann poems wrote:
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