February 18, 2010


I’m anti the poem whose middle
is a nice neat pile of tender, brittle
who gives a shit details; who
gives a shit you spent five minutes
looking up an obscure flower,
a flower or a Russian mystic;
why don’t you call your dad
and ask him what kind of song
makes him sad, and why don’t you
research how people right now
are rarified and mystic, how even
the dullest person is blooming
like a fill-in-the-blank flower.

No comments:

Post a Comment