I want to tell you something
in a few short locking lines;
you may find the concept shocking,
or reject it, but that’s fine.
You may not think it a poem,
for it doesn’t show a thing;
it does not just throw out pictures
like a TV set with springs.
It employs some form and function
(precepts you may not embrace),
and provides no shallow unction
or catharsis, on its face.
There will be no critics fawning
on its radical design,
its unorthodox construction
or bold use of the sublime.
It will never make a journal,
never win a poet’s prize;
it is far too straight and simple
and wears no arty disguise.
You may not think it a poem,
if you trust your teachers’ rules,
or judge it by its reception
from most modern writing schools.
I want to tell you something;
that’s my sole intent and aim.
Whether you accept the message
or not, to me it’s the same.
For I do not write for your sake,
to mesh neatly with your truth;
that you out of hand reject it,
without thinking, is my proof.
I want to tell you something,
but if you choose not to hear
it doesn’t really matter
for it’s only art, my dear.
It is not a revolution,
nor a glimpse of the divine;
not a new proposed solution
for the trouble of these times.
It is not some tortured pretext
by which I excuse my rage;
just a small and rusted latchkey
that I’ve used on my own cage.
I want to tell you something:
if you read between the lines
you’ll find I’ve communicated
more than these few words of mine.
26 APR 2005
