The number 73 bus drove into my life with a spectacularly high statistical likelihood of opening its doors to me.
I distrust poetry. It makes language perform and turn tricks. It is algebra without the proofs, alchemy without the excuse of ignorance.
It yodels into the void.
It scans and jams.
It tells me that my pen is a spade (though not a shovel) – I can’t plant my veggies with a pen.
It switches words around in a paradigmatic sleight of hand.
It rhymes or it doesn’t.
In keeping with some law of thermodynamics, it invariably tries too hard.
It stutters staccato, murmurs legato.
It is nameable.
It is a revolution within a public square (velvet, spring, orange, rose, etc.)
It is borne of archaic misconceptions about language and its transformative powers.
It was used as a weapon of seduction for centuries by privileged idiots.
It puts the hex on me.
It makes me afraid a pterodactyl will swoop out of the sky and carry me off.
It is not as exciting as a list or receipt.
It gets quoted by (moustached) sports presenters and military generals,
It ignored its post-Auschwitz boycott.
It gently reinforces a cruel and exploitative power structure that extends to thought and reality.
It is a safe place where language can assume any shape.
It provides asylum for love.
It provides succour for veterans returning from the front lines of reality.
It speaks in one-liners.
It is the revolutionary guard of an ethereal gulag.
It takes the easy way out.
(O me! What toothpick has Urge stabbed in my eyes?)
It does not transport me with the steadfastness of the number 73 bus.