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Page 248

Homonym – the sound of oral sex, or the word "honeymoon"
as spoken by the provider of oral sex during that act, as in,
"OOMPH! Va homonym if ofer!") Other terms a poet should know:
Antonym (incest with his aunt on top, one form of Synonym)'
Synonym – see above; also a dyslexic flavor associated with buns;
Metaphor: archaic form of deja vu (as in "Haven't we met afore?") --

I don't like where this isn't going. Why am I not telling you
about the obvious blanknesses in my life, such as the deaths
of my mother, grandparents, father, pets? The waste of two
marriages, the lost friendships, generation gaps, lost wars,
lost species? I seem to have lost loss.

Every poet worth his salt tears has a poem where he picks up
an object (comb, figurine, baseball mitt, screwdriver) once dear
to dead Mom or Pop and broods over mortality, the loss of
a presence so absent, yet achingly present – a trap for attention,

the escape from which (albeit no escape at all)
is both craved and rued, as conveyed by something poetic
about ducks on a pond fighting for tossed bits of bread
or a wilted flower or a dying sun, and that, too, will be
something else; for example, the fighting ducks will be
the voices in his head that claim to be he,
FIERCE ducks like the fragments of half-remembered
voices competing to devour "...the stale crumbling loaf
of my grief." Well, that, but leaner, better said –

they do it so well, these poets. What can I add to the great
body (va va Voom!) of Modern Poetry About Loss? Only this:
Before I decided to dispense with the elegiac voices, eager
to devour me, I first decided to dispense with loss.
I decided I could have those experiences or not. I decided
why bother? If ever I crave that beautiful sadness,
I can always set a bottle on the sand, then back away from it,
watching it grow small (how can one GROW small?) with distance....
I decided, goodbye for now, Mom, Pop, old lovers, pets, friends.
I decided no one dies, only bodies. I decided boohoo. I decided
goodbye. I decided hello. I decide.

(Is God dead? I haven't Deicided yet.)

Note: I can't seem to shake off (unfortunate expression in this context) Monica Lewinski. In stanza 1, "Va homonym if ofer!" – my idea of the way "The honeymoon is over" might sound if spoken by a lady with her mouth full (these particular words seeming more likely to be spoken, if any, in such situations, than sweet nothings). "Antonym" or Aunt on him. "Synonym" or sin on him. "Dyslexic flavor" because of the "nym" in "Synonym instead of the"myn" needed to make it sound like cinnamon.

The poem or poems of loss described above are based on no one poem or poet, just my sense of a pandemic mood in poetry. It is perhaps related to what Lorca calls "duende", especially if one weeps passionate blood-tears over it. I don't call it and it doesn't call me, not often. The "va va Voom! in stanza five heralds (like "TADA!) the entry of into my modest poem of "Modern Poetry About Loss", but also is the drummer's naughty way of accenting the appearance of a "great body" (the "great body...of Modern Poetry about loss).

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