breathless poem

Lately I've been worshipping
the gods of breathlessness

its apparent when what you write
is held in as tight of a rhythm
as possible

and you can tell that you've been
holding everything into it's
proper place

but I guess it's hard to describe
maybe I should stick to poetry
instead of poetry about poetry
because what I like when I write
about it is that you get poetry
for nothing

that's why ms. moore wrote
about magical frogs in imaginary gardens
or something like that

and why you can't ask a poet
to describe poetry
all you'll get is beautiful mush

but you can't ask anyone else
to do it either
you'll get figures and formulae
and nothing fun or even kind of stupid

in a television class a fellow student
tried to describe art and failed
but the attempt was notable
for his forced precision

he looked like he had zeitgeist
on the tip of his tongue
but had his tongue in his throat

but shouldn't I be wrapping this up
shouldn't I be figuring out how to end this

"any damned fool can get into a poem
but it takes a poet to get out of one"

when I told Jenny about that line
she said "yeah, but Frost
was obsessed with endings,
don't listen to him,"

so instead I remember what Bill Evans
wrote in the liner notes to kind of blue
(though I don't write about jazz
if I can help it) describing
a process of painting
where the paper is so thin
that the slightest, most watery
paints will break the paper,

so the painter must be delicate,
and not disturb the process he's
had started, so anyway

Evans talked about the brilliant
improvisations it led to

and I believe it as I did
when I read those notes
in 8th grade

thinking I would become
a jazz musician

and now here I am
endlessly beginning

not stopping this poem
even though
it could use a breather.