Monday, May 24, 2010

Literary Critic

Charged with a vocabulary and a sedentary
aggression against all thinking
entities, Herr Professor stuns us with
his opinions as if thrusting a cattle prod
up our anuses so as to enlighten us—

crustaceans with no direction
crawling in and out of the lake
or fermenting in the shallows
to be stepped on by bathers, entrapped by
children,
eaten by tourists—my, life is complicated
(and dangerous) when you try to create.

Vilifying the imperfect,
he attacks the big guys to establish himself
because who cares about the little guys,
who are eaten daily like crayfish,
their heads and all?

What has he constructed recently that
has moved our bowels?—large, unreadable
tablets that have become
walls

between the living—monuments on the impassable
roads
through ruins where you marvel at
their beauty, their magnificence, and pity
the people who built and lived among them.

The world is full of unusable things,

remnants of civilizations that thrust
heavenward begging for mercy when none was
shown.

"What have you done for me lately?" I ask.
"Have you quartered the deficit, have you
cooked me a meal?"
Nothing is sacred,
and I like it that way, and neither are you,
but still I savor your meat,
your baritone convulsion,
your matted ferocity—
you introduce your friend
with such astounding assurance I'm impressed
by the sheer energy, the turbulence, the aura,
your ability to agitate air,
to cause indigestion,
to break not a thing.