Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Dear Mr. Poet
by Jack Escobar

I envy the fractal perfection of your well-balanced lines.
You think I don't see the effortlessness of imperfection
in casual
line-breaks,
the rigid introspection demanded by form?
If my lines are leaves
carried by breezes,
I'd see them smashed
beneath your earth-grasping feet,
the powder thus inhaled by your fat nostrils.
Nothing is nothing
next to you,
the way you pull the levers that
shake the world;
the bright gravity of your ebullient star
driving mine out of commission.

How can one man stand upright
in the furious gulf?
How can I fight back
against Bukowski's drunken fists?
"unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
don't do it."
So I made up my mind.
I drowned the baby in the bath.
I knew not the sun:
so I didn't do it.

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