Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Next Year's Brilliance

poetry is a satire of
which can only take its meaning from
prose because
all of the elements of poetry
the line breaks instead of
the carefully timed glottal stops and the sultrily inferred fricatives
roots in a play on words which themselves
transfer thought

stark verse sparingly versed
describes Chinese fireworks only by referring to them
rather than
describing them

oh Maya, were you tricked?
or were you complicit?

absent the reality of prose to satirize
poetry is empty scatter
incomplete thoughts no longer
glorious because they're sparing
by comparison
because that comparison is needed
without prose, poetry is like
Seinfeld without airplane travel context or cash bars

oh Whitman, were you tricked?
or were you complicit?

memetic parasites of prose
dwell in the spaces in the air between
those who finished what they were saying
and those who
wrote poetry instead
you can tell my astral predictions are true because they
never come true quite the way I expressed
it verifies a deeper wisdom
when the movie has an open ending
the line just runs out, leaving you thinking
what? is that all?
conditioned to believe ourselves failures
we all pretend to get the joke
like there's a great wisdom in
empty lines
except it's not only empty lines, because
you have to first have a poem in there to define those
empty lines
the poet is like a butterfly hunter
who catches randomly on
the road taken by fewer travelers
where the hunting is better
everyone is sure they understand because
somewhere in those empty lines there is
it must've made all the difference, those lines

oh Frost, were you tricked?
or were you complicit?

what happens when they stop making serious movies
and they run out of things to satire
i'm worried because
you can only satirize satire so far
it's like a watered down
solution of the original thing
if no one makes anything real anymore
how long can cross references continue
the laughing party would be as short as a
or something worse
where the emperor does so have clothes
because random intervals "feel" right except when they don't
are you smart enough to understand
it's necessarily so brilliant.
are you?
in poems we put aside our minds
for poetry is taste
in poems we drive so slowly
for poetry knows no haste

oh Dickinson, were you tricked?
or were you complicit?

barring iambic pentameter that you can't at first recognize
there's only so much poetry you can take before
it starts to hurt the head
or has it already happened?
it takes a lot of
to believe that such pain is a result of the presence of deep wisdom
poetry takes a lot of withdrawal to contemplate
how divine that tiring, uninformative thing
must have been
that's why you waded the whole way through
to prove it had meaning
and that you hadn't just been listening
at the asylum door, isn't it?

maybe it's a resource issue
those who have too much paper
and too little mind
are driven to leave some of it
as paper became cheaper
the superior classes wasted it to portray
it's also easier
which also helps with displays of intelligence
and mystical and unprovable
which also helps
like minimalist art
where one word can constitute a piece
her rendition of
was breathtaking as well as brilliant
and its sequel
now comes the swan
was nearly as informative
but the real insight into the work
say the critics
is you can't really tell where it begins and
where it ends

oh Shakespeare
you were a complicit bastard

it's like going to the amusement park
paying ninety dollars a head
and then there's nothing on the other side of
the gates
your ticket reads
the rides are all in your mind
and people think it's profound
and go home

it's like genetically modified brain food
come hundreds of years early
incomplete segments of something that might've once been
looks like food
tastes like food
but baby
it ain't food
poetry is why you can't read

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