To Poe: Fuck You

Poetry is.

It is intended to be read
aloud. Not silently.
Not "this poem."
All poems.

Anyone

who wrote a poem intended
to be read not aloud is no

Poet by definition. Look up, 
chief. It's innate in each syllable 
and inherent in one term: the 

word. "Poet"! 

COOL

That's what! 
The ancients called it
"prosody" and they were right, too.

They had a point, then.
Doesn't matter now, of course!
Unless you read it out loud, in
good voice ringing softly, off the rafters, rattling
only literally every other window in the clerestory, then
not one word of the thing (let alone "prosody") will be!

The same.
Let alone read the same: it
cannot mean a single thing
intended, then. 

Try
me. Better
yet: try your
own. Voice what
it is you read, and
you shall discover
what poetry not

only is like, but what it is for. Please!

Do. Do, do!

Or do not: go! Go 
the way of the Dodo, 
you meaningless, voiceless 
coquette of cocksucking egg! Or
...worse yet?

Cur! A surly or cowardly "fellow"
YOU are, cur! Not even to ever have
guts, sack, bag, gall, balls, nerve and all
(includes ovaries under "balls" as needed,
pouncing and jostling askew, or better yet! 
Ask her) ALOUD! 

TO PUT A VOICE 
TO WHAT IS 

intended, asshole! Why not? 

X why not.
X it up its X'ing paragrab.