June 5th, 2004

alice lost in labyrinth

poem: This is not a poem.

This is not a poem.

I want you to tell me that this is not poetry.

Explain how these words are not movement
- that they do not struggle to capture breath -
with every single word desperate for the next.

There is no poetry that can be written by those
who do not leave their doorstep, save to bury
a fallen sparrow beneath the tall tree where it
was nested. There is no poetry by someone
who writes thoughts in prose to compare the
heart to feelings when it is not so abstract -
it is a muscle pumping blood. It will give out
and it will fail but it does not break or shatter
as the weeping writer would have you believe.

Poetry is no longer rhyme about the sky or the
why of war nor is it even much to write of love
anymore. This poem has been written before.
The pull of the full moon. All of the stars and
planets - the universe in expansion. Outside.
Blossoms on trees in springtime. I see maple
keys on the ground and remember hopscotch
with schoolyard stones. {This poem is recess}

At my apartment window, I tamper with the blinds.
Cars pass. Lawns are being cut. The sun is shining.
There is a light on at my desk. The computer hums.

Hearts do not bleed & there is no poetry - no poems.

ADP 05 June 2004 2:30pm