Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Death of Poetry

Because poetry died
I was finally able to write
A poem. Because the knuckle-draggers
Won and the poets lost
Their black holes to blackberries
There is a lurid meaning waiting
To happen in the honest
Stink of the swamp. Which is to say
Poetry is an eyebrow
Of meringue incubating
In the handkerchief
Of a dragonfly. Poetry
Venerates the jukebox
Whose lambent glow
Preserves the heat of a moment
Thundering in the rhinestones
Of the Zeitgeist. Opacity
Is more than a dog
Barking in a dog kennel
Otherwise poetry gets through
And spoils everyone’s conversation
With things they don’t understand
And the world is a mirror
When everything wet
Hurts to say it. The ecstasy
Of an X-ray oozing sexuality
On an intuition perched high
On a telephone wire still does
To words what words do
To one another, which is solidly
Indeterminate. So you can see
Why poetry died. None of this
Amounts to a bottle of shampoo
So who the fuck cares if poetry dies
When poetry is dead it’s finally
Possible to write poetry

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