Pot-bellied Guy

(Poetry Is Such A)

Poetry is such a

waste of time.

-You-

read it, and

thank you,

very much, another

petunia in the onions;

that, metaphor in a

tv-viewers' world.

Poetry can't save tv:

tv disdains the poetic,

or gives it awards

but never reruns.

Poetry, poetry's

trees falling to

deaf ears,

to hack a phrase.

And then, as if without regard to scheme

or form, all rhyme these days: just stuff of song,

as rythym is,

and all this time

you've read these lines--

all this time

you've read these lines,

I've just been writing

the words I've been given.

I suppose I made them up.

It's true I wrote them down:

poetry is such a

waste of time. Poetry sells

if it's set to song--there's poetry

that can support you. I've been

self-supporting for years and for years

I've been supporting poetry and

never

once has

poetry supported me. What about you?

Will you support me? You

support poetry-- thank you for reading

this far. But why have you? Poetry

is such a waste of time! There is

curiosity--

the lottery

of discovery:

a few, right words that change

or explain the world,

or march like a voice inside one's head,

one's own voice, as said

by another; or a phrase, just one,

worth stealing. There’s entertainment--

whatever value juggling

words brings; those clever things,

just agreed-upon sounds,

afflicted with change,

hep through chic, hip, cool,

groovy, and excellent, and

random.

There is connection:

hearing words in

listeners’ indrawn breaths,

listeners breathing in

recognition, creating an illusion

of unification, a misrepresentation

that helps us.

Has this helped? Or is it true, too, for you,

poetry is such.

0906.21