>When poets don’t have a thing to say
In the way of segue or ending
They talk to trees: Oak, Pine, Poplar, Spruce

Doesn’t matter what they meant to say
Anything that shudders and drop seeds
Will attend, fetishizing Whitman

The metaphor gets contrived, conceited
& the direct rebellion against it, solipsism
Shoves the reader into first person’s moth-eaten closet

A philosophical realist there will thrive
Where he can thrust his hips toward the lips
Of the unassuming eye of you know who.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s