This is the poem
that imitates a poem
that did not win the prize
about the language
that did not get the girl
‘s form or formalism
under a microscope
to serve a function
that lingered in the back
under the sins of the mother
losing the poetic impulse
of the pelican
in the mouth
that began
the
poem that imitates a poem
that suffers gladly
the orange rind
haphazardly
becoming a tree
that will perform miracles
between precarious and precocious
this is the poem.
This is not the
poem
at the heart of language impotence
that plays word association games
about name-checking the dead
technically
speaking
bent light, telephone or utility
pole dotting the wind
driven loonshit
that will parse
the psychological breaks
if apt and precarious
when caught in the act
that refutes all other confessions
that cartwheel their way into your
heart
and black olives
that do not count their blackbirds
and all omissions
and diminutions
about lonesome rock climbing
that find no comfort
in repose
the single simple glance
an eye might catch
no tribulation
and no hosannas
between what is right
what is wrong
with the jazz rhythm
that glides over the surface
that will give to our collective
experiences
that must be read to be forgot or
disregarded
or the metaphysical implications
of repetition
of the eye haphazardly
tossed
on the metaphysical implications
that will breathe fire
in the throats of the unbelievers
in the process
that imagined itself to be
in a simple single glance
haphazardly tossed
forever trapped
in the finalities of endings
this is not the poem.
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