I'm trying to finish this famous contemporary poet's
fourth collection, which groans under the weight of
all the glowing blurbs on the back cover.
The famous contemporary poet avoids rhyme as if
it was a downed wire and finds form too restrictive--
hangs her skelly on a hook when she composes.
The famous contemporary poet writes a few poems,
carefully packed in vignettes, snapshots, and musings,
all the excelsior found in any packing crate.
In high school I had an acquaintance, this guy.
He'd toss out something cryptic and then wait
like he'd flipped you a Rubik's Cube.
Everything out of his mouth was a test and he'd give
you this bright smirk, like can you figure it out and
get to where I am, up here?
I would like to meet the famous contemporary poet
and show her one of mine, plain as the flat of my hand
when it breaks her nose and the blood comes.
I am trying to finish the famous contemporary poet's
fourth collection even though it's like watching a movie
with muddy sound, in dialect, no captions.
The stuff that wins Pulitzers usually leaves me cold.
