You rise against injustice,
thus, blowing Napoleon’s bone-aparts to tiny bits.
You wilt (and who wouldn’t) beneath baking Florida humidity.
You examine a poison-tipped sword, carefully crafted by Laertes,
angrily chopping slices of hog fat from Chicago stockyards,
or else from the annals of American poetry.
Suddenly, ignited by a lusty Australian shiraz
drumming her ruby fingernails against your dusty, upright piano,
you deconstruct the wall between Manon’s terrifying molecules
and dead sea stars.
And there you have it.
That’s all there is to it,
as you’ve told us over 12-thousand times!
So why, then, do we still light torches for anemic poetry
written during these past decades of omnipresent dementia
when we could be rejoicing in your words,
your words like the fibrous tentacles
of deadly Australian jellies
bobbing the very top
of the poetry food chain?
Very soon.
Very soon,
I’ll need an answer to that question.
