Most people think of poetry as words on paper, but actually it is much more: Poetry is a lightening bolt striking a forest's tallest cedar. It's also a spark setting fire to all that’s old & worn. Poetry is the sweet scream ah lovers at climax, as well as the muffled, stale silence of a funeral. It’s the smell of stale piss above grandpa's outhouse and yes – the pungent scent ah Aunt Norma's fresh-baked apple pie. Poetry is the verdant, virgin green of April’s bud tips, as well as the rich, dark mulch where centipedes lie. It's the dandruff flakes on a cranky old history professor's tweed jacket, and a young child imagining its gooey debris to be some miniature galaxy. Poetry is a smoggy sunset of a dying planet, as well as a dawn on a world where life is just beginning. Most of all, it is what happens when thoughts gain music – we should never explain it or try to box or refrain it – simply let it flow with its own beat.

Shu:	Why listen to assholes describe what poetry is or isn’t?
Jack:	Well, an asshole needs a mouth – and a mouth needs an ear. And wherever people are listening, danger is also near.
Shu:	Hmm. Is that supposed to be a “poetic” reply?