This airplane-ear half-heard
this blast of exhaust horn-blown
from the nasal-bus.
We are walking ecosystems
bored in bumper-to-bumper traffic
with in-space as a one-way,
bubble-blowing street youths
learning to protect our own
from the finger-bursts
of fellow travelers, malicious
in their negligence, though resplendent
in their royal puff-ness.
The endless, first-less quest for first base. The context
is critical. Heave chests far and away
like diamond treasure troves, contests sparkling
on and off, while in fear of the willow
switch and the baseless whistle
of glassy-eyed discipline
crow-sweeping downward when least
expected. The context is critical.
Yes, Isabel, the river does
Expect it. Look up
at the last minute
only to see a heap of drudgery,
a swath of chocolate dredged
across the puzzling sky.
"I don't like to call myself a poet," Mr. Kleinzahler said with characteristic
bluntness. "Most poets are shiftless, no-account fools."
-- August Kleinzahler, NYT, 2005-08-02
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