- for Stephanie Esther
The good poet wrote a poem, a song of themselves, in a cage
of metaphysical iron and made a linguistic turn that would
make Cyril Connolly blush in a postured niche
like the seed taken to root, a flower failed stepped on, giving off
the scent mistaken for the Byronic hoof,
they yelled "but hey, what would I know?"
and the question sits as a narcissus
Tanaraic were the words and
the well-rigourous good poet,
holding a Frankfurt for pen,
angered for kranski, stooped to conquer,
the song of themselves,
the quiddity of correctness germane.
Cutting the wings of solitude's flight in the correntness' Zen.
Germinal to the good poet's posture was emotion, the negative capability of
dead horses whipped, the cri de couer of the song of themselves,
given as panorama of what-would-they-know-? it interests me not
as if the value or river banks the good poet poor critic
held at the behest Appolonian purity besmirched, you are a turd.
and the questions sits as a narcissus echo-ward,
Tanaraic were the words,
know the clerestory, that we unknow, untouched
and unmoved clean from the very expansive critic's loft-posed,
waxen-cuffed and teary-lappelled what-would-they-knows-?
's-Take salvames for the neologisms, the tidy town grammarianism,
the regional realism, as small ponds and flowers failed lovingly
tended are best cut to oriental proportions,
we know best, said the tradition, what canon concrete
or language itself,
or surreal non narrative, typographic and dadaist.
the writerly angle that I defile, as I poet, slip into first person juvenile
taken to an emo cage wrestle with God, I poet,
who must fail as demiurge in a derivative
and facile narrative as old as gnosis and German Idealism,
though the incantatory the good poet claims,
as critic, strafe for aim.
never make poems too loud is the dictum of the old,
glamorous and drugged potlatch to the cult of the I
the too-sharp axioms of the green hashish shoots young.
to which the flower failed stepped upon took the scent
of a sacrosanct two-cent hobnail boot
in a confusion of
critique that wishes as pierces to the root.