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
