October 04, 2016
Dangerous Asylum

Would you like to read a swell poem by America’s number one poet? Sure you would. Here it is then, from The New Yorker:


As famous as a broken disc,
thanks for coming all this way.
That’s why I have to do it,
to be a goon that matters
into another person’s life.

You have a lousy voice, but
a good tenor. There, I’ve said it.
You’ll have to quickly get back
on the job, brothers brothers.
In her transparent hair
she is, well, just a person,
Bruce confessed.

And that stuff is now getting cold.
I’ll be there for you;
they want to cut them off from other
poppy-seed cakes,
getting—getting old again,
frustrated bobby-soxer.
Hold that opera—you made the lyrics.

You remind me of you.
We had been up to Speculator once before.

Off you go then.

The poet is even further along in his eighties than I am, and I’d like to think of him sitting in a rocker, smiling to himself over how easy it was to con the entire literary establishment for sixty years. I’m afraid, though, that he is, well, just a person.



Posted by Jerome Doolittle at October 04, 2016 03:41 PM
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