Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Poetry’s the Only Thing to Do

Poetry’s the only thing to do (yes, my dear,
we are addressing you) when all life’s less-
than-palatable tinctures and extractions,
viscous fluids, semi-solid substances

and stubborn rocky indigestibilities bloop
through – and when those bum-de-bums
alchemically therefrom become a craft
that you can steer with some precision

toward at least a simulacrum of the shore
of the delicious mess of felt experience –
where we extract the meanings of what
melts into the prurience biology demands

of mind – to find what happens at the edge
of death, or sex, or rue (turn around again,
my dear, we aren’t through). Poetry’s
the only thing to do besides say toodle-oo.


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