here we are, sitting in poetry
there are things that are important beyond
all this wordle
like eating?
poetry is eating
poetry isn’t eating
science will genetically alter poetry to be
eating and eating poetry
that’ll be boring
the announcement will be exciting
what’s the difference?
between announcement and important?
between poetring and eating?
poetring’s the image of the cake and eating’s
the cake
eating’s now imaging
not when you’re imagining not imaging
this is far from eating
a visitor from nlt 43.2-97 visited me once
and on nlt 43.2-97 one’s nutritional feeds are linked to poetic input and
output – the more one produces and consumes good poetry the more one is fed
so the best poets are corpulent and the prosaic masses emaciated?
except that nlt 43.2-97ers aren’t as
singularized as we. excess feed is shared through something analogous to
mycelial networks here, which can channel for example surplus sugars in a paper
birch to a nearby needy douglas fir. everyone weighs exactly the same taking
into account differences in bone mass and other core variables
do you get visits like this often?
blake, ezekiel, and elizabeth bishop came for
coffee and absinthe the other day
how was that?
ezekiel and bishop didn’t like each other
it was probably the absinthe
the point is – this isn’t poetry
what is it? – it’s not eating
it’s those spaces between that aren’t
anything but graze everything
aren’t they poetry?
the cracks and rubble of poetry
the zone where one desires poetry but instead – sentient radiation
it’s a question of the usefulness of uselessness
really
everyone’s now expected to contribute to the downfall of the
world, through active exploitation, passive participation, protest bound
through necessity to the forms resident in the active exploitation. poets defy
this expectation – not (initially at least) through any intent but through what
seems an accident
any time an unwanted group challenges
society’s cherished forms it is seen as other and consequently stuffed in
culture’s garbage, recycling, or composting bins. heretics – and there are
always heretics for there is always a sacred – have been hated from the beginning
of recorded time – they’ve been ostracized, exiled, tortured, maimed, butchered
… poets are just heretics without any religion, politics, beliefs, paycheque, institutional credibility, taxonomic confidence, consistent structural realities, oneiric healings …
… play-doh was right in this anyway
play-doh can be formed to make most anything
as poetry
as the forms in the forms
it’s almost dawn
the sun oslo rises
sons all souls eyes is
the announcement of suiciding earnest
time for breakfast
fiddletoads and wildepoes and halfheads
what’s not to like?
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