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Dress-Up
I'm not about
the pretty gobbledygook
anymore.
And I know,
Mr. Keats, Bard, Eliot
that we're all
glorified bullshit.
Less "on to something"
and more
on something.
Oh, how poetry takes the uninteresting
and glitters it
with imaged density.
We're playing dress-up
with dolls.
Self-important swine,
step down from preaching
these words are everything divine,
an inlet to our souls.
As I understand it,
language is the most mammoth,
natural barrier
to poetry.
Not the facilitator.
And I daresay
someone who masters the tongue
falls greater into the pit.
We are writers,
not poets.
We are hopeless chatter
mystifying
what two-year olds
gabble.
and yes
They're all my babies.
But don't think for one second
I wouldn't sell them out
for something real.
