Nothing Hidden This Way Comes
You need contrarians.
I know you hate to hear that
but you need beasts like me,
who really don’t
give an electric damn
for where poems hide.
If they are hiding I say,
“Let ’em hide. Cowards.”
I will tell you where poems do not hide:
They do not hide but are open
in the luscious skin of scarlet ink
in the shade of righteous shouts and dark yawps
in the wild where poems already written lay ready to eat you up.
Poems do not hide in just the right light
or the right humidity or the right moment
They live wherever seed is flung,
in the open and unafraid to sprout and die.
Some poems are unbidden and ugly
and cannot be obscured with abstraction and figure.
They are often demons both light and dark
summoned in a shitty spell circle.
They escape half-baked into the world,
mos def not hiding.
I do not discover and extract a poem from muck.
I build them from muck.
I do not uncover a poem from pugged, manured winter pastures
I reach down and sculpt it from that shit.
I do not think there is secret treasure in the offing.
“X” doesn’t mark the spot,
It marks the start where you bend over
eyeballs only an inch off the ground
nose in the dirt
and tongue reaching out
to taste and know
that there is a poem there.
I will leave hidden poems to the rest of you.
I have quite enough on my plate
eating the obvious,
en pleine aire,
on the regular
cracking and chewing their bones
grinding down to the marrow.