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--half grand mal seizure, half
pit bull off the chain and charging.
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.
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Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?