Rosenfeld locked the door And Richards angled a Lamp to burn fluorescence Thru my retinas. "Here" says Rose "a poem About car parts rusting Thru the apocalypse" "Too abstract" a Richie Retort, "keep it to the Real. Write about berries" "No no no, that's ******* Ridiculous" cried Rosen. I could feel a pen In palsied hand. They wanted ink On paper. So I wrote words I Couldn't see, Etching adverbs On a neon sheet Before an electric Sun.
They had me in that room For 48 hours To write the poem in Front of you. Surely they could've Arrested a better Poet.