Poetry: The Owner's Manual

by John Collins

 

Poetry.

Tired, pretentious stuff:

look ma no punctuation

And:

(Damn) I (love) parentheses!)

And:

But don't you understand the symbolism?

 

Poetry.

Our vehicle to world—

A lemon in most cases.

Write it, sow your being with salt.

Already infertile ground,

Twice, triple tread upon.

Read it, poke around

In the belly button of your mind,

Tiny and dark, believing itself

A universe all its own.

 

Poetry.

Something serviceable—

Not a bunch of symbols, at any rate,

Herded like cattle into brackets,

Or something colorful—to hang on the wall.

 

Poetry.

The purger of our sin?

Lifting devils to men,

and men to gods?

False hope either way.

 

Write a verse to your love?

Write a verse to the world?

No!

Write a verse to yourself,

Let it sit a while,

Take it out,

Dust off the grime

Of brooding self-doubt

And drive it around,

Four-wheel drive,

Four on the floor,

Metal-flake shiny

And chromium bright.

 
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