Decisions of a housetrained poet

They should take their places, thrash us with their rapier pens     
those cudgels    
that render, with surprising accuracy    
the slices    
that have power to rearrange us    
   
We could use a good 'what for'    
for inanity    
and our relentless    
barrages    
of some chaotic flutter effect    
where we become obtrusions on the serenity    
of honesty    
free breathing and burn-writing    
and clear vision;    
     
which is almost as irritating    
as your golden voice having to trip over weird structure    
and spo.radi.c    
punctuation -    
   
Or should our beloved bards have positions more key    
than tootling only    
along the edges of their passions    
writing tunes    
that would define generations    
for poetry groups    
   
when their words could be riding ripples from the calendar pages    
shaking dates    
tunneling minds that think they know light    
repairing the nexts    
and so many versions of the past    
   
They take their places, herd us with their quick pens    
like bare-minimum mothers in overloaded hatcheries    
where half the younglings die anyway    
as the world continues to    
wonder    
Where are the poets?