Squat

O 
squat full
of masturbators!
I have entered
either an undiscovered
ward of hell or
a poetry reading.

O
evidence of
my mistaken path,
an entire life devoted to
the twinge given by
a good word!  Silence
is honestly more
potent — see how a silent body
in a noisy room collects
all the spark
to itself?  I’ve been
a damn poet so long,
I had forgotten 
what a useless thing that is
to be until,
upon entering this seediness,
everything became clear
and I lost
my appetite
for myself.

O,
the tawdry tragedy —
the open unnecessary question —
why not stop? 

As if
I could stop,
this close to closure.
As if
the light and the sad floor
could deter me.  
As if
the better words of my betters
could cow me from failure anymore.

So,
I say, move over, all;
I will squat again
and what will follow
will be what always follows.