Chapter Ixv

I had an epiphany While reading Spring and All. Why do I make poetry? Is it a certain call? A call from my mind that needs release? A call to improve a skill? A call to write one good entry To be famous in the next century? To have students analyse and criticise The backbone of my mind that I could never write into short stories. I contemplated the pleasure of the hand or the pen. The latter was chosen Socrates would be elated. A question came to me One I would ask William Carlos William. Art holds imagination in captivity? Imagination doesn't captain the ship of art? Is art rather full of imagination that it can never escape it? Would Duchamp agree Or is this what he means? Let art not be creative for once but confusing but plain but unimaginative but charmless (Is this why Williams always rambles about plagiarism?) So many questions left unanswered for the dead I mentioned. They will stay hidden in this book On this page and washed out of my dirty hair Down the drain Into the sewers and possibly out into the sea or Wherever the drain leads.