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A Poem for the Dead & Buried (to Franz & Jimmy)

June 7, 2015

We stagger through shitty towns
hugging spiral notebooks with
frayed & missing pages
to open mics few attend, send
our poems to journals no one reads
Outland, East Side Review,
Patchwork Quarterly, 5AM
write ignored WordPress Blogs
words, ideas awash in the printed
cyber sea, like Autumn
breezes through broken windows…

Meanwhile, you got a free ride
in Daddy’s car, stole your next
prize winner from these unknown
pages, words at open mics disguised
as from an out-of-tune Ouija board
paid for by friends behind the curtains
endowed Foundations, Daddy’s
publishers, judges you’ve slept with.

Your lines, stolen, inspired, enriched
& dead, are quoted in The New York Times
in your obituary, our lines ignored
even by the Springfield Daily.

No one knows
what will play on the next millennium’s
jukebox — But you are dead poets
now, & we, living poets, still
stagger, still scribble, but will be
dead, too, soon enough.

(for Franz Wright & James Merrill, etc.)


From → Poems, Poets

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