I used to write this shit too.
I probably still do,
or at least from time to time,
I probably still do.
Poetry veiled in so much abstraction,
that even the writer loses touch with
whatever the substance really is or was,
if there was an impetus, ever, at all.
It becomes less about the taste,
the presentation, or even retaining grace.
It becomes a dumping pot for you,
to cram as many ingredients as the page will take.
Anything at your avail or leftover from meals
you have already eaten, digested, and shat.
Your page has become a word salad, dressed
in a white vinegar, mayonnaise, and motor oil bath.
Sooner or later, and probably while still at the table,
it all comes back up as vomit, peppered across the page.
Please don’t mess my shoes and ask me what I think.
You should already know what I think and what you
ought to do. Clean off my shoes with your tongue
and try again.
Try writing something suggesting something,
instead of something suggesting nothing.
Don’t get me wrong, I am glad you write at all.
But like you, with so much potential, so too do the words
you use, and to do nothing remarkable with ingredients
so fresh, you might as well puke in your mouth
and swallow it, puke in your mouth and swallow it,
until stomach acid burns a hole through your throat.
At least then, you will be making an interesting sound
that probably, few, have ever heard before.
Certainly, these gurgles will not be confused
for the word salads we both have abused.