A poem is not made of words, the way
a tree is not made of wood, but fire
and wind
and leaves and rain. Let them be
the grimiest, slimiest scum of Nicholas
Z.,
my scrawls of shit upon these sheets,
the only thing, the IT, the wiry
string.
I am a poem wild and free, wherever my
tear falls upon the ground a flower
blooms,
the sounds I bleed still heard, still
felt,
still pulsing without a word. When I
whistle
birds respond. For a poem is not made
of words but made of me. No figures
in my speech, no need! For what I call
upon
is THE THING, the cry for ALL, the
spark that
set me on the ring, the light through
the
dark streets. I am the poem, over and
over
and over again.