Towards an Unaesthetic

Why is it people, even poets
think poetry is supposed to be
beautiful, palpable and mute
as a globed fruit, arrogant
as Wallace Stevens, deceptive as
John Cage.

Maybe if by beautiful
we mean the knife in the gut, the cry
that wounds like nails scratching
flesh tearing, teeth ripping
pain felt in the bone, heard
as even the eyes cringe at a dust
of chalk, dry as a dust of chalk that
lacerates love with crime, beauty
that twists what bleeds
sets teeth on edge.

Horace’s word for it was dulce
half a formula with utile
as the other half—sweetness laced
with profit; that could cover Captain
Crunch and the sleek ‘I’m worth it’ commercials, so
by extension poets perform an ongoing
series presenting poetry shilling
for the heavenly Wanamaker—

       “I’d rather
hear a brazen can’stick turned,”
says Hotspur, but some damn skylark
out in the ether somewhere keeps pouring
out unpremeditated art.

Give us a break, Percy

get a life!