This Is Not a Metaphor

Sometimes, you write a poem and publish it. People read it from across the country, even people who don’t like poetry– the common man will rush out to buy that volume to read your inspirational words. Maybe it’s all theatrics or even sappy love sonnets, literary mechanics and overused syllogisms. Then they pay you a lot of money and let you live in the White House.

Or you write a poem, and a goat eats it from out of your hands.

Or as you’re scribbling lines you’ll hope will make sense later, the wind carries the paper away, your aerial poem rising into the atmosphere, spreading its wings, tearing itself into a million tattered pieces, and raining down on the city.

People will have to start carrying umbrellas so thick chunks of poetic manuscript will not conk them on the head midday. Like hail, the words tumble through the sky, bright and white-hot as comets.

People will recycle the poems into trains to cross from Raleigh to San Francisco on the tracks, drinking tea while watching the Americana scenery rush by. They will build helicopters and time machines to fix their mistakes, boats that never sink and schools were the learning is all around you, poems written all over the walls.

Or sometimes you write a poem, and a goat chomps down, digesting half of the poem before noon.


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