Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Fulfilling the Requirements of the Poetic Canon

Fire away but please 
At all costs be cute, be witty 
Above all a void—empty 

Adjectives like the accursed 
Plague the rat race, the not so fleeting 
Black death crawling underneath 

The nitty-gritty. 


  1. Extremely apropos in a time as dishonest as this.

    It's the relentless cuteness, the crushing adorability, the happy-facing of the faked caring, that get me.

    The happy-face poem will never rock any boats. It will cuddle up to you, show you its precious feelings, maybe even squeeze out a compensatory crocodile tear or two, just to suggest it's human -- and then the happy-face poet will go out and, on the way to pick up that inevtable latest foundation grant or similar institutional reward, run you over in the street... and if you dare get up, back up and run you over again, perhaps even add in a kick in the face.

    All, of course, with a forced, fixed, totally unbelievable smile decorating its painted-on happy little face.

  2. Gee whiz--it sounds like a veritable inhuman but poetic comedy out there with some masquerading hyenas laughing all the way to the bank.

  3. I don't know if this has anything to do with anything, but as we appear to be on the subject of pure unmitigated joy -- last time I looked, those adorable cuties Huuklyeand Cinquor were at the cash machine, drawing out the fortune they've made on their new line of happyface office furniture with the assistance of a major grant from the Poetry Fundamentation -- and this makes me a smiley emoticon of joy!! I think I'm almost in the mood to be rapt away by another euphoric Poemtalk!! In fact I've got half a mind to type up the entire Good Friday edition of the New York Times, and call it poetry!!!! If it weren't for this annoying full body cast, I do believe I'd be floated straight up into the empyrean without further ado about nothing!!!!

  4. Does this have anything to do with the rumor going round that a prospector named Smith struck gold looking for fools and found them in the saddle of the Museum of Modern Art looking for a poet lariat?

  5. Lariat? What's that you say, Sonny? Hunker up a bit closer to the ear horn, thank you kindly.

    That lame pony we tied to the money tree out back of the bunk house last week, could that have been the Used Trojan Formerly Known as Harriet?


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