Tear It Apart
Go on break its heart, don't be shy, ask it why
was it said in that way and not another?
Or maybe why the hell you even said that anyway?
A poem enters a boxing ring
gets beaten up, yet in the end
the loser is a winner,
the pummeling has changed its shape.
A seagull poops on your head,
kind of funny, everyone grins.
An eighteen-wheeler jackknives,
no one is hurt, poop does not kill,
but you're a poet, some kind of genius,
so you write about slippery bird guano
on a wet road,
a truck hydroplaning,
cars bursting into flames,
a trucker dying of colon cancer
long after that fatal accident.
Misery and joy must be manipulated
then handcuffed together.
You publish the deranged thing -
your mistake,
it's just another aberration of your nervous system.
Then you wait for some wiseass
to tear it apart,
and it serves you right.
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