Ars Poetica (Edited)

Ars Poetica

We are at the crux of societal sublimation and there are now wars over definitions of what is art and what is poetry. The white masters are dead and the rest of us minions are teeming over the planet, and yeah, we talk to each other. We talk poetry. It’s not because some big heavy fan blew all that European stuff across, it’s because we all have words, and words coalesce. Some words like to sit next to each other, like “good” and “morning,” but maybe it’s only because they’ve been cocooned for so long they’ve completely given up, a comfortable marriage. But what would happen if words divorced? Maybe “good” was put in jail for the sake of himself, and suddenly there was “trapeze”? It’s tangible, right? I hope “trapeze” and “morning” will be able to work out their dissimilitude (I mean, they only have one letter in common) but “trapeze” is so sexy! What I do not want happening is for “trapeze morning” to replicate the hollow of “good morning.” If that happened, then “good” was only jailed because he was stale and the whole thing was just an exercise, an even exchange, and we do not want an even exchange. The economy is on such a downward spiral that we always need a greater return than the principal investment, even if it is only the economy of language. The whole point of this is to say that diversification is exponentiatiating, and words should, too. Words should start sitting next to someone new, none of this assigned seat crap. They can make new babies like “twinkle clown” or they can just sound pretty next to each other like “amphibious amplification.”

The main problem with poetry is that humans write poems and humans read poems. If there were no humans involved, poetry would be perfection. Ask your dog, he’ll tell you the same thing! Humans tamper with tones for fun and call it melody. Humans splash ink on paper and use it against you to analyze your crazies. Humans sprinkle aspartame on dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane and then ingest! No wonder everyone is angering about poetry, they’ve all gone mad! This, of course, means that I, too, have lapped the poison. And now as I recall all I know about poetry – everything I learned before the poison and after the poison, and in the oreo fluff – I have determined there are only two things I know for sure about poetry:

1) Poetry is not that powdery blue substance you encounter when you’ve had too much fun.
2) Poetry can tickle.