This is not a great issue of Poetry,
so many names beginning with /J/
read /John,/ whatever they are. May
be that what's invaluable is what
the old are, and I'm not. Is what the
old are, not? Similar love of tercets,
quatrains, the old bear: couplets,
and rhyme. Repetition filled with
more disdain, maybe. Like today,
when I was as near to certain as
I have been that I saw Tao Lin
in person. Got a big rock in my
throat. Smiled, didn't say, 'I love you.'
Or when Chomsky breezed right
past my cloud of atoms, synchronically
(as he passed through all atoms
adjacent (and today, what isn't
adjacent?) to mine) we both slid. Or
when Hugh Dancy danced past me,
little particulates of him into my pores,
orifices, whether or not I wanted it;
and I wanted it. A crust
forms of Barthleme, Anne Sexton,
Joshua Mehigan, their children.
