"that's not poetry"

But I must do laundry
And get a haircut, make coffee
And obtain an active sort

Of boredom, for it is abhorrent
To me to know
Beforehand what a thing is

To become, the unconscious
Is not incautious, the
Forms of farms are far from

Exhausted and this boy
Is never so, though
This man regularly solicits

The energies
Of others in inhabiting
The accidental garb

Of space, if you
Recognize the flower’s use
As a Geiger counter

You no longer look
Down upon its uncomplicated
Eye, I no longer

Look forward to longing for
Words that disguise
Me, as even now I resort

To assume because knowledge isn’t
Possible, I perceive
Because I am less than

A part of the world and am thus
Excluded from its still
And unitary embrace, when I embrace

You it’s because you
Are possible, I feel a feeling
That elaborates those

I bear, I hear
Here through all the moments
Of there, these verbs only

Denote the impossibility
Of not acting, the song says be not so
Fearful, be not so

Pale, the guitar strings give
Way to trumpets as
A man in a kilt casts murderous

Expletives at a figure encompassed
By cardboard beneath
The Psychic’s eave across

The street, so much in my life happens
That’s not poetry
These days and yet it persists

That way, the black-eyed
Old woman who in the middle of her
Rant quieted to whisper God

Bless you to the pinstriped
Man on the train, the drugged-out
Glare of the boy

Embarrassed by
His grasp of fractions and yet
His laughter is impressive

To hear, the screaming of the black
Transient is carelessly
Remarkable and it feels suddenly

As if one has a choice, all the suitcases
Bobbing like hens, all sense
Conflating in a dim whirlwind

Of synesthesia