the clamor of his self is unbearable
I hide behind the tractor
even if I didn’t grow up on a farm
you wouldn’t know I milk well
better than the cogs of this machine
enough about us for the moment
he, though, has taken the altruistic
route too far and has confused
the look of the word for something
that I think was meant to be theological
oh but a poet isn’t a god
only a religion of the weight words carry
not an angel nor a deity that controls taste
pretend and dress up some more
the moustache, the spectacles, the manifesto
confuse no one in these back streets
where I came back into my boyhood
and celebrated an imagination
that wasn’t only necessary but significant
if it had been greater than its immediate purpose
then I don’t think I could’ve been young
be careful not to invest so much
these writers know less than their performance would indicate
than their harem of intellectuals let on
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