Thursday, May 14, 2009

Sonnet 170 South

Comic relief will occasionally filter into the tulgey wood. Silliness is after all my raisin dart, and ME just my tragic flaw.


Sonnet 170 South

I knew a man who dreamed he saw Joe Hill
and all the best minds of our generation
alive as him or me. I know him still.
His dog is better. He eats Ken’L Ration.

We sang together, “We shall overcome;”
the speeches were sincere, the marches long;
until we fell exhausted and sat dumb
or sang the Oscar Meyer Wiener Song.

We went our separate ways. He wrote some verse
about the universe and what it thought
and if his poems were rot my own were worse:
on being all I can be but am not.

So gather dust, typewriter, empty sheet.
The Pepsi generation can’t be Beat.

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