i only read poetry because it's so accessible, a perfectly formed statue; i only read poetry because it's so accessible, and yet so easily forgettable, so self-embodying in that sense of forgetting; well obviously you will not cradle a culture of poetics akin to a worth of fiction, and canonise people into a sainthood likewise, should they read a major work of fiction and compare it to the same feat having read a scarcity on a page, as based on mass appreciation comparison; a poem isn't exactly a rite of passage, it's a process of embodying yourself, to be dropped into the depths... a novel ensures you're dropped into the shallows (the hugging narration of lullabying a reader to sleep), which is why it's so culturally significant in the medium of replicas / imitations; poems influence the stockbrokers of creativity, and they range from being painters to being philosophers.

liken any period of history
to the days we know
how to scribble down a date for,
i'm sure the glutton vacuum
will lie to you about any time period
of your choosing,
and should it not be a glutton,
it will be a skeletal short-story,
hardly a history book's worth of
storytelling;
but like now, the world in impromptu
satisfying,
opened sylvia plath's collected
poems on the poem *the times are tidy,
started reading it, got caught up
in lizard imagery,
Libras of skin ceramics,
lizard skins akin to well dressed tables -
right now i feel a woman kicking
me in the ******* -
judo chop!
skins of lizards finely attuned to
candlelight suppers...
anyway...
started reading sylvia's poem,
by god the solitary gas chamber of hers,
she was "supposed" to put a chicken in there
to bake at 180° for two hours, not her head!
oh god, not her head!
the entire Auschwitz is lodged in that head of her's!
anyway...
so i started reading her poem
unlucky the hero born,
in this province of the stuck record
and out of nowhere, by the end of
the second form fireworks go off...
i mean it, a neighbour sets off fireworks
on good friday,
phosphorescent blue and yellow,
and that stench of gunpowder all around,
you'd think a horde of mongolians were riding
on the high tide of conquest and hopes of ****...
but you never hear of mongolia in the press,
i guess the communist experiment got the better
of the world, isolated them like Idaho or Alaska...
it started there mind you, i spent an hour
in the u.c.l. library researching the ****...
but i mean... what timing!
pure transcendental ***! starting to read a sylvia
plath poem and then fireworks...
you don't get this much magic even if mermaids
or fairies or godmothers exist.