“I too, dislike it.” – Marianne Moore
As an organizing principle, a first or efficient cause,
or a thing generally adequate to the explanation of it
poetry sucks. The fact that people
get degrees in it, make their living at it,
or sell it makes me believe this country prospers.
Like religion, it is only the thing itself despite itself,
the composite of the whole,
the pattern made up by the crazing
in the cracked-up vessel that is life.
For me, it is all too often the dream sequence,
the attempt to translate what was babbled
at me in tongues, to find the morse code pattern
in the static.