I Am 25
With a love a madness for Shelley
Chatterton Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear:
I HATE OLD POETMEN!
Especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:—I did those then
but that was then
that was then—
O I would quiet old men
say to them:—I am your friend
what you once were, thru me
you'll be again—
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
and steal their poems.
The wonder of this library I wander through at will, sipping living water somewat murky in the past. I skipped from 22 to 71, in one giant step,
