Any Poem Worth the Trouble

I hear that any poem worth the trouble ferrets

through the merits and the bubbles and the existential

anguishes of life, the daily prickly bits of oddity and strife

that any notion-faring poet worth his metaphoric see-salt

will then conjugate into bright slices of a spanking

specificity: not do, for an example, what I’m doing now:

assaultively abstractly overseeing, through relentless

rhyme and meter, something like an aerially distant view

of “Being” – too full of philosophic nattering to matter.

But every time I try to wield the bloody spatter of what others

call Reality into an art, the apparatus falls apart.

The reason is appalling. But I’ll confess it here. The muddy

messy diddles of my little life are not enough. I’m quickened

by quite other stuff. I want a conversation with what

won’t talk back. I suppose I should feel stricken by this lack.





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