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The Impossible It

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Aug 28th, 2018

Is poetry a proper profession?

Or the blind route of absurd digression?

Or is it an awkward transformation

of purely personal indigestion?

 

Is it the art of absolute failure

incompatible with architecture?

Is it a spontaneous click-picture

of imaginary, ad-hoc weather?

 

Could it be something much more sinister

like a dog growling at a visitor?

Why does it often invoke blunt censure

instead of sublime, ecstatic pleasure?

 

It’s like a nervous horrible disease

that puts no sane person calmly at ease.

It’s much like the pinch of losing your keys

when all you want is to sing as you please!

 

There’s no answer to a non-equation

or outrageous inconsideration.

The thing is it creates expectation

rather than improving information.

 

Does anyone at all really need it?

Shouldn’t we all just merely forget it?

I admit it’s a damn-awkward habit—

I can’t stop myself from noodling with it!

 

To conclude: the work of rhythm and rhyme

doesn’t work unless you have a good time

hacking, revising, twisting a black line

that excites—like clouds riven by sunshine!