What’s poetry? Ask Bécquer and he’ll tell you: «¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas? Poesía... eres tú.» So it’s all you... All somewhat whisky, won’t apply at all If I don’t know who or what you is. See, poems Are things as real as rain or fake as rainbows, And sound that moves low down upon the tongue Or high, ethereal as a tweet in trees. The sound, the slide and touch of tongue to tooth. Yes, tongues like those for love (and not for talking Since love’s a wisky labial off the mouth) But not for yous that fade away like the Fake peepshow picaros for circus bucks. Things. Things like Rilke’s Dinge or the Panther Dessen Blick ist vom Vorübergehen der Stäbe so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält. Dem ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt. (Whose gaze has gone so weary from the passing Of bars that it no longer holds a bond, To whom it seems a thousand bars are massing, And in their thousand show no world beyond) No world, behind the bars- there’s not a form. And form’s the thing of all: rien que la nuance Take form away, no thing is left: sheer nothing. So keep your “why don’t you...”s and do your thing. Such things out-thing and outthink things we think Throw us for roller-coaster loopdeeloops Right sideways, upside down (cerebral pressure Perpetually strained: Danger of concussion) Yet sound still echos and resounds upon The tongue, words brighten round and we can see The rutilant shadow of leaves against the grass When sunset speaks her breath on my bare tongue No sense need come, when we can speak the names That objects are: A growl of uvular French’s "L’insecte net gratte la sécheresse," And curt cicadas grate the bone-dry air As what we said.Wind pulsing in the pines As drowsy dawn rose, blonde with a thousand roses, Said words in thousands, to hie and sigh the time When oceans, trees, and animals would rhyme. Ask Ginsberg- he won’t answer, he’ll just spew you Detritus from KABOOMs of diatribes On generations, angels, and mary jane, As meaningless as that. Don’t dare ask Byron Or "love" and "kiss" and "moon" and (rhyming) "bliss" Will infect the response, and viral verse Will pour in you as well. Don’t ask, for your sake. Nims doesen’t know. Don’t bother, he cares too much For crystals and observatory odes. But you asked me. So what’s my answer? This.