No one wants to hear your shit—but remember that day in Helsinki when the kid (still a teenager) thought you were personally responsible for Viet Nam? (You told him you were.)
Or remember thinking there’d be a day for standing up straight with your head clear, liberated at last?
Look! I am pushing a large, black wool ball down a dark corridor!
This is a dance for the poets in my country. (The poets with their green suspenders, cartoon flash lights and customized angels…)
Your head clear, liberated at last…
Poetry is not being renewed. I hate to sound like Kenneth Rexroth but have you noticed they’re killing all the young people?
My lines limp rather much the way the blues always do.
Remember thinking you’d live to achieve a double minded smile?