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To J. Berk's previous piece
Like I Know What Poetry Is POETRY IS NOT something kept in a sealed mayonnaise jar with twigs & sticks. Poetry is not a secret thing, held in the hands of giants whose huge Stonehenge hands can only be pried open with colossal crowbars. Poetry is not sealed away in dusty vaults like Cinderella. Midnite is where true compassion lies. Loneliness is where true expression lies. Poetry cracks & dangles like the neck of a hanging victim. Poetry is not cinema. Poetry is an obsessive compassion disorder, a fidgety rearranging of words not for the sake of a fidgety rearranging of words but for the sake of A fidgety rearranging of your inner constraints, secret complaints & salacious fellatio. In a world where so little is certain, where nothing is ever what you expect, Where shifting seismic plates & blown-out tires abound, Where everything falls apart & it rains a lot, It's nice to create a room that's bright and green, with flowers maybe And sunlight jaywalking in thru the window and birds singing fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la Or broken malt liquor bottles and filthy pictures And snub-nosed cigarette butts passed out on the floors – whatever. Just as long as it's just the way you like it right down to the tiniest detail and you try to keep it that way no matter what anyone says And no matter what the deteriorating forces of man, air, sea, the universe, our country & God try to do about it. That's what I'd say POETRY IS.
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