Untitled by Mark Flanigan

This is the poem that never mattered because it couldn’t speak well.
This is the poem you leave behind everyday at the breakfast table.
This is the poem that usually went the same way as our dreams and early morning’s
shower.
This is the poem you feared would slip out while you weren’t looking.
This is the poem everybody embraced that time your fear proved true.
This is the poem unborn but with history.
This is the poem that needs only to be acknowledged in order to be written.
This is the poem that will tax you regardless of your worth.
This is the poem you cannot win with, but this is the poem that simply will not let you
lose.
This is the poem that will tell you up front that the best thing you could do for everybody
right now is just let the poem be.
This is the poem that knows you better than that.
This is the poem that says everything you were thinking but lets you say it better.
This is the poem that precedes poetry.
This is the poem they were hoping you wouldn’t hear today.
This is the poem that stands opposite those that don’t buy groceries but always have
something to eat.
This is the poem that exists if only to spite those that begin at the end, which is nowhere.
This is the poem they are expecting us to throw away.
This is the poem they want to suppress so that they still might say it first.
This is the poem that is the small line dividing us and them.
This is the poem that refused to settle for any lines at all.
This is the poem you would have thought was put to bed long ago but wasn’t.
This is the poem As Seen on TV.
This is the poem with no need of radio.
This is the poem that is the tune everyone can hum but what were those words again?
This is the poem that will lay down its life long before any mention of a resurrection.
This is the poem that those who dislike poems about poetry have been waiting for since
time immemorial.
This is the poem that serves to inform that under the present set of circumstances such a
person may only guess at recognizing a poem, at recognizing me.
This is the poem that can be translated into any language successfully.
This is the poem everyone’s quick to recognize but slow to claim.
This is the poem that rocked the cradle all night long and never did listen for a callback.
This is the poem that has no problem claiming itself.
This is the poem that requires nothing more than what you’re ready to offer.
This is the poem that never pretended to be anything more than the poem that never
pretended.
This is the poem that knows the joke’s broke but enters the ring regardless.
This is the poem that can no longer afford to second-guess itself.
This is the poem that has been staring out at you for quite some time now.
This is the poem that has nothing to lose by asking what it is you see.
This is the poem that took the time to say hey isn’t it about time you told yourself
how good you look in this here poem?
This is the poem that wants to apologize for not having all the right words.
This is the poem that thinks maybe it’s trying too hard but reasons whoever heard of
such a thing?
This is the poem that is your coming attractions.
This is the poem that let it be known it wishes you had bought some popcorn.
This is the poem that’s so fed up with watching its weight that tonight it wants to just
feed.
This is the poem that will tell you straight up that any resemblance to the living or the
dead has nothing whatsoever to do with coincidence.
This is the poem they careful not to give a day in court to.
This is the poem that will work for food.
This is the poem that asked what? you really gonna let me get away with that one? ah
you’re too kind.
This is the poem that knows well the glory involved in being able to kill time.
This is the poem that will wait with you in the theatre even though the poem next to it
is talking entirely too much.
This is the poem that beseeches you to ignore such considerations, no matter how much
it may add to the movie.
This is the poem that, more than anything, likes to listen....
This is the poem that suggests mere recognition is cause enough for celebration.
This is the poem that sees the others starving but knows what needs to be taken care of
first.
This is the poem that realizes it can’t give what it refuses to take.
This is the poem that will turn over the wheel as soon as you prove we’ll get there faster
and with less scenery.
This is the poem that refuses to fret over feeling at ease while climbing rocky terrain.
This is the poem that knows by now that peace of mind doesn’t have a damn thing to do
with peace.
This is the poem that assumes someday you will move onto something else.
This is the poem that wishes you well in your search for everything it isn’t.
This is the poem that’s only half as sure of itself in person.
This is the poem that never objects to being personified so long as it’s for a
good cause.
This is the poem that revealed itself as an elaborate form of instinct.
This is the poem no longer convinced of its necessity.
This is the poem that knows not what it set out to do, but senses it did it all the same.
This is the poem that pit all the wrongs so evenly that everything turned out right.
This is the poem your mother always warned you about, knowing you wouldn’t
have noticed it otherwise.
This is the poem that salutes such mothers, but only because it can afford to.
This is the poem that contains the unutterable.
This is the poem that knows precisely what that still means.
This is the poem that will do your dishes so well you’ll never even realize they were
cleaned.
This is the poem making the same old sad tired mistakes of yesterday.
This is the poem that wants you to see for yourself, we’re surrounded the game is nigh
up, but just you try and convince me that we still don’t look tough up here on the
big screen.
This is the poem that has just met its match in time.
This is the poem that has no choice but to admit to never having been a true poem.
This is the poem no longer considered poem now in league with the unutterable.
This is the poem that thought it no longer needed an excuse for poetry.
This is the poem that thought it needn’t speak well to be of note.
This is the poem that was presented at the start with a choice between failure or
extinction.
This is the poem that wonders, with failures this sweet what fool bothered to invent
victory?
This is the poem that still awaits both a witness and a name.
This is the poem.

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