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The Cities You’ve Shown Me, Part III

for Amy

on the way to loving-towns, in search of the human

The Cities You’ve Shown Me, Part II

The Cities You’ve Shown Me, Part I

for Amy

I heart to buy love in a mall

I came upon a poem in a mall but
I did not write it. It was unwritten in the swarm and
in the stores. It was full of adjectives and enjambment.
It rhymed from time to time. It alliterated like a pretzel
bought at an island cart. It was a well-crafted sestina.
It sprung forth in iambic pentameter. Etcetera.
The specifics are unimportant. They were spoken for
in many other words. I think I last saw it in a glass case,
straddling a mannequin with nipples, where I
left it last, untouched. As if writing it would have trapped me
in the infinity of its dumb and senseless logic.

metapoetry is rampant in cave-dwellings

arse poetica

for a lifetime, methinks,
I’ve been inside a brick house
sitting around on my ars poetica
and feeling its soreness spread
into a final dying whimper that
never seems to go away

narcissisms, clementines, cat-astrophes

one for marco. unfortunately winter makes us think of poetry.

enjambment

the period key on my laptop is broke
thus you must trust that the dots are there
every line ends where it ends
there is no enjambment
none, not a bit, not a single bit
the units of sense are well-separated
sentences straddle themselves
no verse ever leaves its place
then you can imagine where it finishes
it happens when the poem’s done
that is where you envision its ending
you must dream of a great period
then, you can forget about it, for good

Poetry is dead to me, so ignore the irony of all poems forthcoming

poetry and the dog seem dead

I am tired of poetry. It sits on the floor
next to the panting dog. Oh well,
they sigh. Nothing is left. They are
both passed out, both winded
objects, one of which is a
bitch that was never leash-trained,
one of which is poor at running
through suburban streets,
one that’s sitting still because the room
is so darn dull that even dogs
can’t see–imagine a wolf with such
vision and you’ll see hunger
eating its way through a flock
of sheep, getting shot up by a
pissed-off shepherd. They are both
full of bullets and they spray
water like watering cans when they
take a drink–big, fat, mammalian cartoons
blasted by some stuttering hunter.

in search of a place to be born, part IV (revisiting image through homesick or longing eyes)