The Critic

Original line is from Howl, by Carl Ginsberg: “who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish”

I cannot tell you how or who

creates poetry out of the scribbled,

mush-mashed ramblings told by all.

I cannot tell you day or night

of the rhythmic, deafening rocking

of time as I waited for you and

in that moment, angrily rolling

in our bed, with the sheet over

my eyes and ideals, be they lofty

or just simply the incantations

that clear my mind of whose or which

still too angry to truly speak in

harsh prose.  Stammering over the

anger to get past the golden yellow,

to start the new morning

no longer ‘we are’, but now ‘were’

forming meaning from stanzas

that cut brutally short of

creatively giving love or worth to gibberish.


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