the poet's lonely-ass battle

This is another of those arrogant, ass-hole poems
about some dick who sits there noticing shit
in arresting detail or obviously trying to,
like he or she or in my case I think I'm
better than you, just because I make a habit
of writing it down and presenting it,
to you, as if for your benefit
in some finished form that makes much
of the skills I learned in finishing school.
And practically daring you to react in some

way - which way is unspecified, but implicitly

personal.

As if we need help to react in some
bullshit way to some bullshit that (no thanks

to the poet's deft

elicitation

of the universal) is something we clearly can see
and feel we have clearly all seen and felt! Why?

Just 'cause some self-important and pompous prick
was pompous and self-important enough to think
we needed his help, or hers, or in my case, mine
- writing it down for us, so we clearly can tell
that it's something intense, intended for us
to feel about?

That's redundant, pal. The rest of us LIVE
all these seeings and feelings, we hardly need you
to be noticing them! And writing them down,
and presenting to us, "Did you notice this?
Arresting, is it not? How the universal seems
to creep into all of us?" If you please,

No, sir (or ma'am, or in my case, "you" will do)
it is not! Your noticing, putting thought-out
forms to what passes for unnoticed everyday life
only makes us notice you're an asshole. And so
are we, every time we get sucked in by such bull! Thanks

for cluing us in, yet again, to another universal
truth. In this special case, maybe we couldn't

have figured it out without you.