In anger, we say, “Fuck it.”
That’s a kind of poem. One kind of poem, the memory of a moment of utter disgust digested, compressed into a singular phrase. Cliches are fossil poems; pat phrases are living, wriggling fragments of attempted poems — and who among us doesn’t have a pat, pet phrase…?
These are attempted poems.
All around us a murder of attempted poems, their wings barely raising them from the ground.
All of us are poets. All of us are suspect to the art police. — daring us, goading us to say something at once superfluous and necessary.
When we say “Fuck it,” we decide how the scale tips.