Open Mic

One thinks poetry is a couch to make the world play therapist, or at least take note and listen. One thinks poetry is a prayer book, calling the faithful to litany or the faithless to become congregation. One thinks poetry is a rifle to shoot the head with images of war or blast away the combat’s trauma. One thinks poetry’s a vase to preserve the cuttings from the garden or store stony trinkets collected from private shores. One thinks poetry is a bullfrog shut in a dry shoebox, ready to croak or jump out inappropriately during show and tell. One thinks poetry is confetti, meaningless color tossed haphazardly, or blinding shards thrown like glitter into eyes. One thinks poetry is preservative to allow display of pale, shriveled organs or the internal parasites that feed upon them. One wonders if this poetry deserves the polite applause for its presentation or if the art has been lost in the hands of these practitioners.