This is not the poem that imitates a
poem.
This is the poem that did not win the
prize.
This is not the poem about language.
This is the poem that did not get the
girl.
This is not the
poem about form or formalism
or
language theory about the function
of
form in formalistic
rituals
not created
under
a microscope
to
serve a function.
This is the poem that lingered in the
back
of
the classroom.
This is not the poem about the sins of
the mother.
This is the poem about losing the
poetic impulse.
This is not the poem about the role of
the father
in
the mouth
of
the pelican.
This is the poem about the moebius
strip
that
began
this is not the poem
This is not the poem that suffers
gladly
the
mnemonic device.
This is the poem
about the orange rind
haphazardly
tossed in the causeway
becoming
a tree.
This is not the poem that will save
the world,
perform
miracles,
challenge
our simonous ways.
If you want poetry that questions the
difference
between
precarious and precocious
this
is the poem.
If you want poetry
about red, juicy plums
in
the white, sterile icebox
this
is not the poem.
This is the poem that speaks to the
heart of language
impotence.
This is not the poem that plays word
association games
or
freeze
tag.
This is the poem about name-checking
the dead
poetic
forefathers –
Longfellow,
Crane, Ashbery –
in
a wildly lamentable fashion
in
a wildly lamentable poem
regarding
a wildly lamentable subject,
a
subject such as
dead
poetic forefathers.
This is not the poem that understands
interconnectivity.
This is the poem
about Ashbery being
not
yet dead
technically
speaking.
This is not the poem that was supposed
to be written.
This is the poem
that is responsible
for
every single
bent
light, telephone or utility
pole
dotting the wind
driven
loonshit we
call
home.
This is not the poem that will parse
the
psychological breaks
you
have experienced
and
label them in safe
if
apt and precarious
categories
you can
mumble
into jargon
when
caught in the act
of
explanation.
This is the poem that refutes all
other confessional poetry.
This is not the poem that will
cartwheel its way into your heart.
This is the poem that is not about the
author.
This is not the poem that haphazardly
tossed
the
salad spewing pistachios
and
black olives
over
the firmament
of
the stainless counter.
This is the poem that does not count
its blackbirds.
This is not the
line in the poem that declares
the
author responsible
for
all omissions
and
diminutions.
This is the poem
that finds no comfort
in
its immaculate conception.
This is not the poem about lonesome
rock climbing.
This is the poem
that separates the wheat
from
the chaff.
This is not the
poem that separates the rod
and
the staff.
This is the poem
that ran a stop sign plowing
into
a child-filled compact sedan
and
sped away from the scene
leaving
on a trace of crimson paint
a
tinkle of turn-signal plastic
but
This is not the
poem about limbs breaking
buildings
falling
the
single simple glance
an
eye might catch
of
pavement.
This is the poem
that does not know itself to
be
poet-
ry.
This is not the poem with the jazz
rhythm
best
read with dragon snaps
in
the haze of cinnamon smoke.
This is the poem
that glides over the surface
skirts
the issues
walks
the line
dots
its eyes
crosses
its fingers and tees
or
hopes to die.
This is not the
poem that will give
to
our collective experiences
an
apt if precarious name.
This is the poem
that must be read
to
be forgot
or
disregarded.
This is not the poem about the window.
This is the poem
that does not linger
on
the metaphysical implications
of
repetition.
This is not the poem about the bloom
of the eye
haphazardly
tossed
to
the tree
to
the leaf
you
once remembered
why
you remembered.
This is the poem that does not linger
on
the metaphysical implications
of
repetition.
This is not the
poem that will breathe
fire
in the throats
of
the unbelievers.
This is the poem about Calliope’s
absence
in
the process.
This is not the
poem that imagined itself
to
be a sonnet.
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.
This is not the
poem about the finalities
of
endings.
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