Making no sense on the metro

Just because it makes no sense doesn’t mean it’s a good poem. You have to work at it by beating the table with the hammer of pain until a newborn springs from the womb crying out with the most pleasant of sounds all the way to the stars that are most definitely watching and wondering why people don’t sing and dance more often instead of catching up about some event on some stage in some city on some day that they think ruined a name or changed the game that somehow matters even if the cosmos cared how your cereal sounds when crunched or whether you bite your nails or who cut in line and got to work five minutes earlier if the people don’t know how to hear and see what the point of it all is when a person picks up a pen because they are tired of the mania that entraps the body in some miserable scheme to seek relief from the burning ache by vomiting a few lines of verse that somehow matters for making sense of what happened yesterday when the clock fell and smashed into the tile floor at the same moment that the phone rang with news that grandma died from some sort of ism that even a child couldn’t pronounce in a hundred days of practice but not without a flood of parental help so as to avoid the perception of an improper home that doesn’t care for the future even if the child just wants to cry and run down the street to the hidden cave of mysteries and wonder between the fence and the playground where the sound of adults arguing about whether goats are good for yoga doesn’t reach though it echoes through the historical corridors of the historical city in the historical region of wherever so much so that the people forget how to hear the sound of silence that is always muffled in the savage metro car where dreams die on the way to work.