Some poetry makes no sense even to me.
I suppose that is the way it’s meant to be.
I have no accounting for old men in pissy
diapers either, yet there they are.
We may question a swarm of bees around
the railroad track. Why there, and who in hell
cares?
The screen door has wholes where the flies
come in as the old maid mops the floor. Is
the obtuseness suppose to open the eyes
and surprise? Your guess is as good as mine.
Could be most poets and their poetry are
just plain nuts, asking us to see just how
absurd the marriage of words and images
can be.
Oh, indeed there are poems which rhyme
just fine, those with vivid sensible imagery
we plainly see. But a bird-headed buffalo
swimming in a shallow stream is as ridicu-
lous as it can be, a baseball bat to the head,
metaphonically speaking that is, a tireless
truck irritatingly skimming over a bed of
bent nails.
What in hell else would you expect from me?
Is it all a misguided smoke screen, a stab at
the mind attempt at poetry? Go ahead, you
tell me.
-30-
Chris Hanch 6-11-2021
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