Local ears hear jazz and complain,
“Where’s the melody?” aka:
“Where’s the familiar?”
Under true and useful “hostile conditions,”
the Revolutionist should know that if he sees a “middle ground,”
he is experiencing a mirage.
Some can realize the conspiracy between all dancers,
the collusion twixt audience and actors,
but can you grab-a-peek at the nebulous nexus that binds the local and universal?
I think that I shall never see:
A poem lovely as a knee,
A link ‘tween thighs and toes below,
A bridge that follows rivers’ flow.
(Could we not now have a moment of reverence
for those things that move while remaining stable,
and those who stay whilst departing,
but only do so when you remember–or forget–to watch.)
One more-than-adult sorehead, standing by his won father’s grave,
rubbing together his hands, was overheard to intone,
“Based on the way things have gone thus far,
I can hardly wait to get really old, so that without conditions
and with no restraints or exceptions, I can be thoroughly wholly and sublimely pissed.”
Most books aren’t written for any particular purpose,
and that’s why publishers must get someone
to write an introduction for them all, to say otherwise.