This is a hyper-specific poem;

that punctuation mark is called a

semicolon;

the semicolon is a period,

if periods were closed doors and semicolons were doors cracked open by an easy breath from the west.

See how you just opened that door?

The period, like a knob,

that imagery is what helps us see and think and be differently;

poetry doesn’t care about grammar,

convention,

it’s the freedom of the form that captured my attention,

originally.

Now, the lines above, are a segue,

or are they,

or is that just what an unreliable narrator would expect you’d expect me to say?

Or maybe it’s a misdirect,

in order to subvert what you expect,

change the topic,

the tempo,

the speed,

my job is to keep you on the edge of your seat,

is it not?

That's rhetorical, obviously.

Are you guessing, now, where the rhyme scheme will go?

Or, Why am I still reading this though?

What is it even about, it feels kinda vague to be about specificity specifically?

Rhetorical questions can be a crutch,

I think,

in poems and prose and IRL convos,

but it's how I think —

and those questions are fair —

I think in questions, every moment I don't speak, which,

preferably, would be

every single moment of the rest of me.

Now that line, yes, admittedly, is very

depressing

because it makes you think of death,

my death, specifically —

see? —

which, yes, is depressing, but death is a part of you,

and me,

and poetry;

the semicolon is back, you noticed, so are we —

that's my other job, to read your mind,

not just when I write, but all the time —

what you want, what you might like,

it's exhausting, the guessing,

the guessing mixing like concrete with the feathers I’d rather be expressing,

because, I'm sorry to say,

and I'm really sorry if you're finding out this way,

no one can read your mind.

I have two choices, now —

the line break (that empty space up there) is a deadbolt,

which, then you ask:

where is and who has and what is the key?

Rhetorically, obviously.

(Two makes a motif. Or was it three?)

Two choices:

I continue the rhyme to drill deeper into the conceit,

or

I break the rhyme and just speak.

You should know what I chose,

because the choice was made before I gave you the choice, which is exactly what life feels like presently,

or is it just everybody?

The vague, sometimes, contains universality.

There's one last consideration I have to remember,

(notice above, just a small bit of consideration for you,

your time,

and mine,

the ‘one’ above is meant to tell you that there's not too much more left — or I'm bored —

or my daughter or wife or cats require my attention,

or just, like, chores) —

Where was I? is a lazy way to reacquaint the audience with the point you were trying to make after a tangent,

but, personally, I'd like to think of you more intelligently and assume

that you remember that I was talking about remembering the one last consideration of this

hyper-specific poem,

which, I think, I just restated extremely...

longwindedly.

Is this poem even about what you said it would be?

I have to remember to consider that you and me,

you will never read poetry the same as she, or he or me or they or we;

he said provocatively;

deliberately.

(Provocation is never something done accidentally.)

Like that sentence, planned;

what were the parenthesis for, then?

(Well, then, they were employed to make a larger point from a distance like a drive-by sniper shot, which, honestly, shouldn't be taken too seriously, because its main use there was to use them here for this definition to really build the tension before the last bit below, to provide some space for tension to bloom from the seed of the stanza before. In the final edit, of course, I guarantee this bit will be deleted, forgotten, but then how are you reading this? you ask with remorse, don’t deny it; I added it back just before, don’t tell my editor, like I can afford an editor —

she's awake, time to go.

Convenient, I know.)

Where was I?

he said lazily,

but since we talked about this earlier,

this whole thing, writing, it's a conversation,

this endeavor

to understand,

and be understood,

remember?

Was it lazy, or did I plan it?

Motif or amateurish?

Unfortunately,

so very little happens spontaneously,

except maybe cowardice,

or bravery,

but never defeat.

Defeat takes real work.

Defeat is every day that isn’t a victory.

I wrote that sentence times one hundred twenty-three and each one above that one more,

one hundred twenty-four,

and, if I could,

and I can,

and I do,

I’d delete everything I’ve ever done and write it again,

for you;

then revise more.

That period there is the penultimate;

second-to-last like our generation,

it seems,

maybe,

doesn’t get much bigger than planetary,

while, last I checked, that planet’s the same one that pulls both our feet with gravity,

unless gravity is depleted, too,

things move so fast when you close your eyes and plug your ears and go to sleep,

one term, only, you say while hoping for two;

what did I say this would be?

Hyper-specific poetry?

What a cheat;

that describes each and every poem you'll ever read,

and each and every person you’ll ever meet;

consider each equally;

remember, though, forgiveness isn’t free,

this is the last line of the poem, which, normally, would have been the line above, but sometimes the lack of rules and conventions becomes its own rubric,

however figuratively;

I’m trapped in the specificity of vaguery.

(I lied. That was the last line. The final taste I’ll leave. I’m aiming for bittersweet;
like cyanide, whiskey, neat,
or the obsolescence of beings being able to be obsolete.)