Blue Plate Special

a poem should be written
on a whim, in the dark
its meaning a puzzle
its purpose a lark

assertions, like tires
should be poked with an awl
erudition abandoned
it’s not needed at all

extruded ideas
so much pasta, all carbs
an early-bird special
no spices, no barbs

rote and pedantic
sanitized and deburred
screw that, draw your daggers
have quarrels with words

make inanities dance
to a literal din
as many as will fit
on the head of a pin

when done it should lunge
at your throat off the page
in a cheeky, precipitous
perpendicular rage

or at least make us laugh
at ideas we hold dear
or confront the hobgoblins
of truth that we fear

if not, set some meta
to meter and rhyme, like
a bore, argue theories
per dozen, a dime