Doggerel grease on modern poetry

can slide words into a dark travesty

slipping past hairs of understanding,

hairs like weeds now uncombed,

flashing their freedom but ignored

as poetic poppycock continues on a chaotic path

toward the source of an idea river

which (the poet hopes) will wash away

all memory of the literary greats, while

the torrent of language drivel cascades to

the applause of sophisticates who pretend

to know the innards of the poet’s mind,

not carrying that they fail to understand

any of it but self-satisfied with

the assurance that just as canvas

splashed with the contents of a paint bucket

must have meaning (else, why the thousand dollar price?)

so too, even the strangeness of a poet’s

words on paper must also have meaning

(else, why this praise from critics who

stack their library shelves with unread books?)

— Tom Mach lives in Lawrence.