In anger, we say, “Fuck it.”
That’s a kind of poem. One kind of poem, the memory of a moment of utter disgust digested, compressed into a singular phrase. Cliches are fossil poems; pat phrases are living, wriggling fragments of attempted poems — and who among us doesn’t have a pat, pet phrase…?
These are attempted poems.
All around us a murder of attempted poems, their wings barely raising them from the ground.
All of us are poets. All of us are suspect to the art police. — daring us, goading us to say something at once superfluous and necessary.
When we say “Fuck it,” we decide how the scale tips.
August 29th, 2017 at 1:00 am
YES, YES, YES…
August 29th, 2017 at 7:04 am
Thanks. I’ve edited it a bit and changed the title…
August 29th, 2017 at 7:08 am
Love it. My own little offering today on my poetry blog is about Division…