pablo’s funeral

Who sucked the emotion out of poetry?

There it is
on the floor twitching
flopping and bouncing on the tile
obviously fighting off death.

It’s a much deeper red than I thought
and it’s glistening with stickiness.

Isn’t it sort of depressing
the way we all stand around it in a circle
pointing fingers and covering mouths?

we take turns reciting verse in eulogy
even though the poor thing isn’t dead.

We really are some cruel fuckers.

Tom reads a poem about asphalt
Kathy follows up with one about bird droppings
Erica speaks of her vagina again
and Bill his old penis.

There’s a million people it seems
locked into this circle fascinated
as emotion gasps for water
and the mundane verse recital continues.

It’s my turn
I almost forget because watching emotion die
is incredibly like using a fine narcotic.

“My poem. . .”
I begin

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