Walking at lunch, reading Marjorie Perloff, a Boston Review article regarding poetry on a brink. I think it is above me. No, I know it is beyond me. This expensive white cardboard cup filled half with Sumatra and half steamed soy reminds me just how ordinary a poem flows out of me. No ivory tower formalism has shaped these line break. Do I even know of the avant garde. Someday, a day when it’s too cold to venture north for a misto and new air, I’ll sit at my plastic chair, at my me(n)tal desk, and try pounding out something about how coffee is from beans that are roasted until oily and brown. Can i express it better than a sophisticated barista presses an espresso. Who knows, i’m chock full of nuts. No blue mountain or black mountain; plain ole chicory pedagogy. A backpocket library card with no requirements for entry. There is unlimited check out, and i can steal sentences, too. Conceptualise this moment; then I’ll try to write it sincerely. Just don’t expect AU, this is pure CO2. Am i getting warm; is this poetry.
Is this Poetry or poetry or a poem
Posted by angela on 2012/06/07