Poetry Is Dead. Long Live Poetry!
This poem is unexecutable!
Words are stuck in the web
of my grey matter
prisoners in this writer’s blockhead
unable to leap the chasm
between axon and dendrite
Maybe a coffee enema
will relieve the constipation
restore the situation
to a modicum of mediocrity
and I’ll appear erudite
I’d line those soldiers up
march them to a hyperbolic beat
but they’d fall back
unable to maintain rhythm
weary of regurgitation
People talk too much, they’d say
anxious to establish significance
used and used and silenced
so confused
Don’t believe a word I say
for I have been incarcerated far too long
with all the other vowels
warm wind whistles through our jowls
so much hot air blown here and there
bouncing off the backs of consonants
landing freely where we will
lack of discipline opens up
so many other possibilities
Rhythm method having failed
this poem is inconceivable!
So, without the seed of just one letter
planted in my pen
this poem will never see the light of day
this poem will never have a life
no matter what I say
and for the deed of having lied
I fear this poem will never die
It will only fade away.
Maraya Loza Koxahn
from Metamorphosis of a Narcissist
