Staring at the jungle that is the page
trying to understand?
How the words come out endlessly
and yet I can’t comprehend?
Why modern poetry is dead or so they say
And yet I look to my friends…
blown out and obtuse
like the slip of the cock out of the hole
it’s just cum of the mouth i suppose
that’s printed in the Kenyon Review
and yet as i gaze so longingly
i can only hope — to be in there too…