I have decided:
poetry is journalism of the soul
if the soul exists
and journalism cares little for facts
 
which, let’s face it, has always been the case.
 
I write this:
another dumb poem about poetry
during yet another war
because it seems like it’s all I can do
 
apart from joining the Marines and getting my ass blown to smithereens
 
I think that:
the body of an innocent child
wrecked by an errant missile
isn’t poetry
 
I know that:
three smoking planes crashing
into an image of God
isn’t poetry
 
I know that
a rise in sales of flags
and gas masks and patriotism
isn’t poetry
 
but maybe writing about who and why and what we feel, is…. 
 
It’s official then:
poetry is journalism of the soul
a Bible of purity
amongst the dusty dolomite ruins of man’s stupidity.
 
Forever and ever Amen.