Three memories, a sensuously descriptive phrase
overheard. Snippets you catch from the radio,
someone babbling, gestures, junk, movement, detritus,
the Psychedelic Anarchy you try to find,
For the Poem Manufactory: get a big pot,
throw this stuff in, turn the grinder crank
until words come out, and get stuffed
into stanza skins, something’s gut.
Poetry is thus an edible sausage you can eat,
to be uplifted, and when fed, feel complete.