This dirty room, another useless conceit
about the trees or clouds, another song
that makes an argument. Why do I make
up shit like this at all? What is the point
of artistry? Whatever politics
I have are incomplete. The active life
supersedes the contemplative. When I
read the continentals I don't know
if it's not mysticism. Have the poems
do some work about the world, have them
move people to action, move hearts to love
some shit they hadn't loved before. Have poems
dissolve a preconception, make apparent
all that we assume—then criticize it.
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