Death of poetry

It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.

But I don’t know if people talk
Enough
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.

It seems.
You know.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.

It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.

You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
Circus town.

“Something is amiss”
You say
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.

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