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