Therefrom and Thereupon

Poetry’s the only thing to do
when all the less-than-palatable
tinctures and extractions, viscous fluids,
semi-solid substances and stubborn rocky
indigestibilities of life sluice through
you into murky juice – when any hope
you might induce perception runs along –

depends upon – whatever river of decision
you can shore up, commandeer until
it veers alchemically therefrom and thereupon
into a craft that you can steer with
some precision towards at least a simulacrum
of a sense, exacting “clear” from “dense,”
completely manufactured, yet with

something of the fractured fractious
mad deliciousness of felt experience –
melting into every variance and prurience
biology requires of mind – to find
whatever breath respires right at the edge
of death, and rue. Poetry’s the only thing
to do besides say toodle-oo.




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