.
Time to write a poem that
does not erupt in couplets,
is neither here nor
there nor anywhere that ever was,
.
nor will occur, nor
ever could have anything to do
with him or them or me
or her, or (heaven spare us!) you.
.
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
.
the spheres – that won’t
allay nor banish fears nor have
the least intention to
become a solipsistic metaphor of
.
so-called “heart” to
make it break apart inside a trope,
or force it into the somatic
undesirable reality, of tears.
.
It’s time to do away with
commas setting up faux-mystical
pretentious clauses like
the one you just saw separate
.
“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
.
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
.
your Aunt Betty. The
Huns who rule poetic schools
like anatreptic
ghouls, the ones that school noetic fools.
.
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