=What Kind of Poem This Is=

This is a poem 

without any epiphanies,

where nothing gets resolved,

nothing happens,

hell, I don't think

anything even gets described.

This is a poem through which

no bird flies

no tree casts a shadow,

sheds a leaf,

timbers over,

where nothing natural appears at all

not even a clump of dirt.

This is a poem where

no dad shaves, no mom

dies of cancer, no love

is mourned, nothing

in particular is remembered

at all.

Nothing rhymes,

needless to say.

This is a poem

where phrases like needless to say

are needlessly said.

Lines are truncated

for little 

or no reason.

The word cunt appears

only to liven things up.

The words red cunt appear

to make things even livelier.

This is the kind of poem where

I say I got fucked in the ass last night

and tasted cotton candy

as if the cock probing inside me

activated some childhood olfactory memory lost

in some otherwise unreachable part 

of my brain and in a flash I'm twelve again

under the boardwalk

watching the ferris wheel, hearing

the screams from the rollercoaster

discovering sex for the first time 

even though

none of this is true

nothing of the sort happened. (see 

the verse above).

This is the kind of poem a cat walks through.

This is the kind of poem

where you figure

well, she must be trying to say something

even if unsuccessfully

even though I swear to you

I'm not trying to say anything.

This is the kind of poem

where both of us 

are always wrong.

This is the kind of poem 

that you get lost walking 

around inside

like a new apartment before you've

moved in or like an old

apartment after your stuff

has been moved out

and you think wow, 

where did all the life 

I lived here go?

This is the kind of poem

where somewhere in the middle

the poet starts talking to you

directly or starts talking to herself

as if the reader isn't here at all

as if she were alone.

This is the kind of poem 

that you begin to suspect

was written by a poet

who is just pulling your leg

but you have to wonder

doesn't she have anything

better to do?

Don't I?
Don't you?

This is the kind of poem

that never gets published,

never gets read,

never gets even so far

as being written.

This is the kind of poem

that you figure can only be saved

with a fantastic verse at the end

that ties it all together

that blows open your mind

that it sure the fuck better 

or you're going to feel really cheated

and pissed off that you've wasted

so much of your time reading it.

The kind of poem 

that the poet herself

interrupts to tell you right now

that there will be no fantastic verse 

at the end, that you 

are wasting your time,

that you might as well stop reading

right now if you're thinking

there will be some kind of payoff

to make it all worthwhile.

This is the kind of poem

that tells you this 

when it's already too late

when you've practically 

come to the end

when you figure

oh what the hell

I might as well read 

the rest of it.

(Manipulative bitch. Never read

another word by her, 

you'll end up muttering,

walking away when you're done,

I practically guarantee it).

But this is the kind of poem

that doesn't care what you think

that leaves a blank

between brackets so you can imagine

the poet laughing

at your hunched diminishing 

back as your feet

stomp you away […………………..

…………………….

………………………….]

This is the kind of poem 

that you're left looking

for what it is a metaphor

for even though the poet

insists it's not a metaphor

for anything, honest injun.

The way people will insist

on finding meaning in divorces,

loss of limbs, natural disasters, 

sudden deaths, that's 

not her problem.

This is the kind of poem

that lets you go on deluding 

yourself if that's what

you've set your mind to doing,

it's not any skin

off this poet's nose.

This is the kind of poem that 

doesn't care if you're listening

or not, like a radio playing

in a room the only person 

sitting in has just

walked out of.

This is the kind of poem the cat walked through again.

This is the kind of poem 

that can't remember 

whether it said it didn't have any

similes in it and if it turns out 

it did say such a thing doesn't

care if it violated its own 

rules or contradicts itself now

nor will it go back

and change what it said

earlier.

That's because 

this is the kind of poem that 

revises itself

by addition as it goes along,

it doesn't look back.

Furthermore, 

this is the kind of poem 

that invites you to add a verse

or two yourself.

Go ahead, add three,

or a dozen, knock yourself out,

be my guest

don't just fucking sit there

do something

get involved.

I don't own this poem any more

than I own the words

it's written with,

the hand that holds the pen,

or the brain attached 

to the hand.

None of it is mine,

nothing.

Publish it yourself if you like

if you can

under your own name.

Do you think I fucking care?

You can add your own lines here: [

                                          

         ].

This is the kind of poem that allows

your mind to wander off,

to come back later,

or never to come back at all,

the kind of poem that will be

in the same place you left it

whenever you left it

whenever you return

if you return

who cares?

This is the kind of poem

as if you couldn't 

have guessed 

already

that doesn't give a shit about you

at all

and why should it

did you add anything to it

like you were kindly asked to

just a couple of verses above

or did you just sit there

like a bump on a log

expecting all the work

to be done for you

thinking your passivity

your inane criticisms

were enough?

Look, this isn't the kind of poem

that pretends to be your best friend

or your lover

or even your ex-lover;

it's none of those things.

This poem isn't your goddamn mother.

This is the kind of poem the cat walks through

for the third time now.

The kind of poem

that looks across the table at you

and says it's over

I don't love you anymore

that ends

just like this

without warning

or not

the kind of poem

just hanging around

in case 

you have another line 

to add

something more to say

that might convince it

to linger

a while longer...

The kind of poem that lights 

a cigarette

and when you snarkily inquire 

since when 

did you start smoking

tilts back its head

and shoots a flawless stream of smoke

straight up in the air

smirking conspiratorially at the stars

it cannot name 

as if to say

just who the hell 

do you think you are 

to even ask.

And, only then, as if it
were just waiting for this
precise moment all along
finally gets up and leaves 
without another word.
Like this.