Bad Poetry
Never say a poem is bad
Just turn the page
No babies are ugly except
for the ugly ones
Of whom we don’t speak.
We say they’re all a blessing.
Not every sky is a sunrise or sunset.
We spend our lives in the gray haze.
It’s bad luck to wish away
your life
Skipping to the good parts.
Forgive me if I essay here a bit
On the incontrovertibility of even one bad line
Toward the end of an otherwise epoch defining epic
that could have saved us all.
Short stories and vignettes are the sweet spot—
The busy surgeon who still finds time to write.
The single mother who comes up with bangers while folding laundry.
Novels get all the glory and for good reason
How we adore effulgent celebrations
of elegant failure.
Flawed, awkward, overbearing and unable to ever shut up.
You can call them ugly if you want.
They’re all grown up.
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