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!