Saturday, October 10, 2009

The Silent Plea of All Sorts of Poets

The lazy poet, she said, with his editing work and fineries
is not one with us among the laundry and store-mending, said
the mother-in-law, and I smiled with a sadness and shivering
awe: what canceling out by forgetfulness, what crazy blues

trumpet its way into the hues of my busy hours measured not
in terms of sweat but by the sweetness of words in the flow
of flaws. What am I doing here? is how a young man would put
it. What should I suffer? is how I am at it now, knowing how

I must swallow prejudice like a preeminent palaver of mouths
and their masterful hosiery of truths enforcing truisms that
in turn manufacture hate that I cannot now induce. I shall
forgive like a free farmer of time, tiny to news dictators

but assiduous, astoundingly asphyxiated but conscious, open
to the stonings and labels of village trains of thought. And
the sibilant sufferers of my existence can suffuse me on and
permeate my name with rusty chrome, Mr. Negative-To-Blame.

If you need my help, ask me. If you cannot ask me, defame me.

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