Quick! Fill the world with your poems. Make them sound like a top that spins. Make them sound like chuckling water cool on the brow of your feverish daughter and son. Quick! Fill the world with your poems. Make them sound like the voice of your wife in her strife. Quick! Fill the world with your poems. Make them sound like her strident tone. Compete with journalism and memes you see on your phone. Go insane. Write poems on Putin, puddles, Ukraine. Quick! Fill the world with your poems. Take translations of Rilke and stretch them out until they are yours, inhabiting German tombs, where the poems can't get out, modernizing them with hallucinogenic mushrooms adding to the experience of Jimi Hendrix, Rilke moving the cursor and wearing spandex. Put your poems in a criticism book. where we can have a second look to read but also interpret. None will have finished the commentary yet. Use the sweat drowning workers' bones in your poems, use hunger and dire circumstances of others lying on the pavement where protests have knocked over cones and people can't get to work. Quick! Fill the world with your poems. The hour grows late. You know your fate. Quick! Those poems, those poems. Write one or two especially to the one who made your life particularly fun and made you forget publications and loans. Divide and multiply your revenge, your moans. Practice at tea with embellished sets. Quick! Fill the world with your poems.
