the babble of poetry

I cringe at poetry.
I can hardly
get through a single poem
in poetry magazine
before cursing
and throwing the worshiped
tomb
across the room.
Bukowski is rolling
in his grave.
drunk, perhaps, with a whore
beside him,
but still
writing, still believing
that there is more
truth to be told
and a better
way to say it,
than that babble.