“Why should poetry have to make sense?” —Charlie Chaplin
Mad lover’s poems
compress a rosy garden
in compost and rain
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Love poems gush blood
from the heart of the stupor’d,
pierced by Cupid’s dart
But the lover’s power is the poet’s power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.
Gospel poems spit
the saliva of desire
in the devil’s eye
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Senryrū, like haiku,
brushstrokes of calligraphy,
grand art in shorthand
Humor has justly been regarded as the finest perfection of poetic genius