Your fixation on ancient obelisks . . . is a pinched nerve
demanding a steroid injection
a flippancy that derails dime-a-dozeners . . .
And now you're sweating the stylistic devices of S. Freud
and the probe of this poem
and the probe of something else not yet identified
finding yourself in the deli section
worrying enjambments . . . the accrual of lines
the orchestration of loneliness . . .
You're trying to score, yes? . . .
Trotting out the notion
that the poet creates and alleviates loneliness . . .
I think you're losing readers
with your otherness
with your self-conscious selfie . . .
They think they know what you're thinking . . .
I don't think they know . . .
What do you think? . . .
Let them continue . . . to talk to themselves
and propose their (unsought) intimacy . . .
The spin cycle is almost over, yes? . . .
Trying to figure us out? . . .
But inconsistency is our forte . . . our mise en scène . . .
Beginning with the line How should a person be? . . .
The nosedive . . . yes . . . is bound to happen . . .
It will give us something to believe in
if only for the moment . . . parlaying streaming options
holding us . . . stroking us . . . telling us to remain seated
for the entire white-knuckle construct
with complimentary mini-carafes of something mint-flavored . . .
Corpse Bride (2005) |