And also, a rant I might have entitled "An Ode to Art of Interpretation."

Theoretical Establishment

I have this theory, see, it looks like a silent film
first, there’s me scribbling excitedly,
then some frames from Metropolis,
cut to you, or perhaps a chorus line of yous,
high-kicking, jabbering, and pointing
up at the drafts which have been hung
as a massive backdrop on your stage. The theatre is full,
people hoot and shout, nod in agreement,
and then cut back to me planting a bomb under the stage
walking outside, pushing a little red button, and watching
as the whole place comes down.

If I wanted it all explained, I would have asked.
If I’d wanted all the doors opened, the lights turned on,
the corners changed from small shadows to bare white
I would write about paint peeling, or American football.

Give me back my sense of wonder, idiot critics,
give me back all my mysteries.
Where would Prometheus be without the darkness
we needed fire to light? All I ask is that you leave me,
and give me the beauty of words
before your science makes them boring
and they become your subject to vivisect
your phenom to explain
formulaic pith, all bone
no marrow.