What’s it for anymore,
and what is it anyway —
this chopping off
of lines anywhere your genius decides,
and what’s the point of it
since you same geniuses robbed it of meter
and shot rhyme, excuse me, rime dead?
Why not grouch and moan
in straight paragraphs
about your unspeakable dads and moms
and your suicides
and your rotten sex-lives
and what happiness it was to live
when the Ice Age was in bloom
and how utterly utterly
is the universe?
What’s wrong with paragraphs?
I give up.
I mean I should.
Because I don’t know how it happens,
but plop,
and eight months later,
plop,
a poem (I guess)
comes dripping out
my rotting spout.