It’s Time.

https://youtu.be/eygpwMuyWQ0

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Time to write a poem that does not erupt in couplets,

is neither here nor there nor anywhere that ever was,

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nor will occur, nor ever could have anything to do

with him or them or me or her, or (heaven spare us!) you.

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Time to write a poem as if poems were a shoe. Time to

to write a poem that won’t speak or sing or whimper,

mutter, stutter, crow or croon about the moon, or suffer

any rude collusion with the ears, as if it were the music of

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the spheres – that won’t allay nor banish fears nor have

the least intention to become a solipsistic metaphor of

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so-called “heart” to make it break apart inside a trope,

or force it into the somatic undesirable reality, of tears.

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It’s time to do away with commas setting up faux-mystical

pretentious clauses like the one you just saw separate

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“reality” from “of”. It’s time to write a poem that has zilch

to do with “love”. It’s time to scrub ironic quote marks off

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of everything. It’s time to write a poem that cannot, ergo

will not, insist it is a poem. That’ll show ‘em. Show whom?

.

you ask. Listing that’s a tedious task. Anyway, you know

already. The seven hundred sixteen poet chums of

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your Aunt Betty. The Huns who rule poetic schools

like anatreptic ghouls, the ones that school noetic fools.

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