Which leaves the poets huddling --
under what empty moon, and ET unreturned home.
The wackiest wild west show about to be born
and no poet to write about it.
Which leaves the present speculator:
I might have written an ode to Solomon Grundy's
if restaurants were the doomed species;
but poetic adulteration is the real target.
This is the last poem:
eat it and die from it.
postscript: buried in City Lights 1996
one caucasian deadbeat nondescript
eyeballs pasted with unintelligible words
of pure wonder
they died illustrated
Page 27 (Black Book: Light Heart)
|
|
|
|