Poetry is self-evident—it does not need outside forces to impel it to its place. Reader & writer alike find in it that which is what it is & allow it to be but certain forces attempt to prohibit the flow & despite their weakness often prevail when nature collides with artifice, light with dark, this with that, above, below, beyond—until we hear in the silence that follows that which is not. The hollow hum, the distant tree. Ventriloquism. The possible outcome of this all is everyone is a poet, or no one is, & we continue to do as we do, be as we be, empty as the 24 hours that pass, arbitrarily, in every word & whisper, every shout & cymbal, from a twist of tongue to the lap of lips & vibrato in the throat thumping & thwacking the oxygenated field; here is a word: Kilimanjaro. Here’s another: Obstetrician. Both are bounded by the screening of eye, ear, mind & we take it for what it is, whatever it is. Opulent Resistance. Opium Renaissance. The path the fewer take is the same as the masses. Ovular Remembrance. We seek it, we find it. We find it, we hold it. Then we lose it. Return, open, return. The less found, the more known. The more lost, the longer held. Worms on the sidewalk after rain; pistols amidst eyes; the waves. It’s circular, this reasoning, ending where the circle starts—wrapped around the arm of infinity, infinite arms of the what & secret release of the transubstantiated, coma of the covetous, limbs of lust & glue of gluttony—total descent into the decadence of cadence in metrical measure of a universal unhorsing, remnants, fragments, cracks in the windshield—

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