The 2012 Consolation Prize for Poetry
People keep telling me that now that a fountain of shit
has drenched my belongings in rotting human excrement,
I should be pleased that I will have new fodder for my poetry.
There are two problems with this kindly meant,
but ultimately unhelpful suggestion.
One: A fountain of shit is like a fountain of shit,
some things are not metaphors for anything except themselves.
Two: Let me give you this choice, which would you prefer?
Staring at a blank piece of paper experiencing
angst over the possibility that there might not be a poem in you
at this precise moment, or trying to build a dam to block
the river of crap flowing out of your toilet?
