One day, I will be fortunate enough
To sing the body electric in my own notes
And wail for the best minds of my generation in my own alley
And feel a connection to Sylvia beyond a page
Without the pain of Poe
And the forest-mindedness of Thoreau
My path of syllables
Excerpt from a song
Will bombard the bestseller shelves
And leave twenty people
Huddled in candlelight to hear as
The Chosen One reads my manuscript
From a ribbon-bound mass
And my verses are muttered between “intellectuals”
The same way no one has ever read Howl
Leaving a thirsty one
Or two
Flipping through the aimless last pages
Taunting ad finem
And an early morning critic
Trepanned