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my poem looks at me and says,
"please just kill me.  put me out of my misery. you've been writing the same fucking shit for years and haven't learned your lesson.  your poetry has no plot, no point, no direction.  just a collection of nonlinear with the occasional clever line or new word.  you're giving me a headache.  there should be a law against using the alphabet that way.  but you.  you've broken all the rules, and not in a good way.  you rationalize it as stream of consciousness.  oh there's the thought.  oh there it's gone.  i give up.  i can't follow where your mind is going.  you do have the occasional clever new word, but so what!  no follow through.  if you can't follow it, what do you expect me to do?  please just start over.  give attention. a sleeveless mind is an empty body?  really?  what the fuck.  how did that get in there?  streaming.  oh yeah.  good for music but not for me.  start over.  you really need to..."

denis streeter    11/21/18

the pretense

chandelier littered sky oft in disguise
laboring beleaguered blossoms
bitter fruit balks petal pattered past
linked shutters blister on
disappointing fingerlings long on swelling days
valleys breezing gerted flight
halter bones shape literal trace horizons
seamless thumbs thread pineless bones
pone beyond name shape reveal
mites marking dust stone fragments
testaments scribble faltered confession
walking riding scribing in tongues
lessons lister blistered churnings
abuzz horn blessed freetle blossoms
Joshua baffles in confides
chicanery chick clapboard cupboard
confines listless abundant pine
storms steam seamless signs
grace peaks shadows and knows


denis streeter   11/17/18