This is the poem that did not win the
prize.
This is the poem
that lingered in the back
of
the file cabinet behind the folder
full
of outdated manuals to implements,
electronic
devices and bicycles
not
owned
by
the owner of the manuals
for
months going
on
years at this time.
This is the poem about the left foot
being
bigger than
the
right foot.
This is the poem about losing the
poetic impulse
in
a cacophony of turn signals, inappropriate
lane
changes and careening
wildflowers
attempting to abate
our
driving mad flux
to
the happy home of Bakelite
and
emotional electrolytes
to
stop.
This is the poem regarding the moebius
ranch house
we
have not yet been shown
that
we will not yet purchase
when
we have not yet been shown
the
ranch house that we will
not
yet purchase when we
you
get the idea.
This is the poem about the orange rind
haphazardly
tossed in the causeway
becoming
a tree.
This is the poem that questions the
difference
between
precarious and precocious.
This is the poem that speaks to the
language impotence
of
database administrators.
This is the poem about name-checking
Auden
or
some other dead poetic forefather –
Stevens,
Pound or Ashbery –
in
a wildly lamentable manner
in
a wildly lamentable poem
regarding
a wildly lamentable subject,
a
subject such
as
dead poetic forefathers.
This is the poem about Ashbery not yet
being
dead
technically
speaking.
This is the poem that is responsible
for every single bent
light,
telephone or utility
pole
dotting our wind driven
loonshit
at this time.
This is the poem that refutes all
other confessional poetry.
This is the poem that does not count
its blackbirds.
This is the poem
that states that the author
was
never molested or violated
without
his
or
her, as the case may be,
consent
and volition.
This is the poem
that states that the author
is
woefully and holy
responsible
for all of his
or
her, as the case may be,
omissions
and diminutions.
This is the poem that is not about the
author.
This is the poem that will not clarify
its meaning
through
thorough examination.
This is the poem
that knows of no poetry
in
functioning. Or querying.
Or
formulating.
This is the poem that denies previous
refutations
and
all burdens.
This is the poem that finds no comfort
in having
a
defined middle.
This is the poem that finds no stark
comfort in having
an
immaculate conception.
This is the poem
that ended before it began
but
stayed around for the after
dinner
drink when
it
was clearly redundant
to
do so
and
an unwelcome
predicative
act on its part.
This is the poem that ran a stop sign,
plowing
into
a child-filled compact sedan
and
sped away from the scene
leaving
only a trace of paint,
a
tinkle of turn-signal plastic.
This is the poem that bears syntax no
harm.
This is the poem that does not count
loss.
This is the poem
that separates the wheat
from
the chaff.
This is the poem that knows no
tribulation.
This is the poem that sings no
hosannas.
This is the poem that strays away from
emotion.
This is the poem that will bide no
time for momentary flashes
of
emotional recognition contained
here
within
at this time.
This is the poem that has not
experienced
childbirth
or
surgery
or
a suddenly percussive
unexpected
life-benumbing
loss.
This is the poem
that does not know itself
to
be poetry.
This is the poem that recognizes the
smell of rain
for
all that it is – wet
oxygen
and hydrogen.
This is the poem that glides over the
surface.
This is the poem that skirts the
issues.
This is the poem that will walk no
line.
This is the poem
that will not give
to
our collective experiences
an
“apt if precarious”
name.
This is the poem that would rather be
a spreadsheet
than
try to name
our
collective experiences.
This is the poem that must be read
to
be forgot
or
disregarded.
This is the poem that offers no
misdirection.
This is the poem that supplies no
forked path
in
no garden
in
no imaginary land
in
no ocean
where
we have swam.
This is the poem that does not linger
on
the metaphorical implications
of
repetition.
This is the poem about Calliope’s
absence in the process.
This is the poem regarding the simple
single glance
haphazardly
tossed
at
a Bradford pear tree
forever
trapped
in
the glance of an eye
in
full bloom.
This is the poem about the ineptitudes
of
beginnings.
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