Friday, July 17, 2015

A short non-linear American poem (So I will)

Ginsberg set them up,

Bukowski knocked them down wouldn't let them get up,

Kerouac was too weird, too off time to make any visible impact,
     "I write poetry not prose",

Corso was a romantic was too italian,

Ferlinghetti published books had a cabin in the woods,

Whitman lived too long ago to be easily recalled,

the modernists were all suicidal like Crane,

William Carlos Williams got caught stealing plums,

Pound pledged his heart to fascist dictatorships,

Snyder cared too much for turtle island,

Elise Cowen they wouldn't publish your thoughts
     and nobody asked if they were scared,

Gdowik bit into pineapples, cracked his tooth
     on ungodly spires,

Welch drew rings of bone around the earth,

Hughes started a renaissance and is remembered
     for one line in a play he didn't write,

Whalen wrote invisible words across the sky
     became invisible himself,

Tavella walked the concrete medians of Broad street
     imagined unread words,

Rexroth was old and new and couldn't decide which way to go,

McClure jizzed all over everybody came off too cool,

Mcknight fought the structure, lines and rhyme and voice,

Plath said fuck you,

Taratut sung a song of a song not yet heard,

Hemingway never gave shit enough to try,

I intend to follow my words to the grave.

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