Poetry is a destructive force
with its parochial themes and metaphors of a magnifico.
Even the occasional earthy anecdote
or the nuances of a theme by Williams
do nothing to dispel the disillusionment
that sets in by ten o’clock.
The poems of our climate read
like the anatomy of monotony,
a dance of macabre mice to the
sad strains of a gay waltz.
Anything is beautiful if you say it is
even men made out of words.
Of modern poetry it can only be said
that it is primitive like an orb,
casting asides on the oboe.
A poem written at morning, a Sunday morning,
is like a banal sojourn
into a depression before Spring.
The ultimate poem is abstract
mixing the pure good of theory
with the course of a particular.
A world without peculiarity,
no possum, no sop, no taters,
just the plain sense of things.