A Non-Poem

a poem- (to phrase it weakly,
as my muse is,
as I, sickly)
may be a bohemian exudation,
a war-like insinuation,
a contemplated, learned elaboration,
or one of other manifestations of the great Orphic call--
but This bombastic shit-
isn't it at all.

This verse-
had it a little courage,
would be a wide-pointing curse,
such as an African elephant sings
in these poaching times...
this dark age of "Scholarship,"
which perhaps was the word I loved best...

it reminded me of comradeship
and reflected some of my better poetentials...
my others being affectionate and childlike, perhaps,
but
(the bad moon hanging over me growing fatter)
it barely matters-
quantumly clings to relevancy:
THIS ISN'T POETRY!