Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Obtuse reflection

This is poetry
because I said so
because the way the lines break
force your eye to read, to see things
not differently
not always
but to see
the strings between two similar things
the thought that sat in your mirror
every morning when the fluoride was
not quite enough to wash out the taste
of not dreaming
and the way your brother lets women's numbers
go to voicemail.
Leave a message, a message, a message
after the beep. A brief pause,
and then never enough time to say what you want to say.
This is poetry because
there is a frustratingly tenuous rhythm
in the way the words come
but not enough to see
clearly
the way you like to see things
designated, well designed.
You are now resigned to the fact that this,
is poetry.
The sort of thing that pokes and pulses
and makes prose feel a bit like
the second cousin at a wedding,
known enough to be invited but not in fact
in any of the good pictures.
Poetry is after all, made up of good pictures.
It is the retraining of the eye, accustomed
to straight lines, towards tangentials and always
in the rule of thirds.
the lover, the brother, the father,
the intro, the conflict, the end,
the message, the message, the message.
This is poetry.*



*because I said so