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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