…he spoke to me
neither wholly to me, nor to the next man
But a part of himself talked to himself….
— Ezra Pound, Canto LXXII
You won’t read this poem until I pass.
Certainly you won’t remember
as it floated past your eyes, dulled
by too many glanced pages, posts,
readings — “glance is the enemy of vision” —
my words flitted on your loaded
screen. It came and went like shit
through a goose on the internet.
That’s a three-fer: idiom, cliche,
and simile. Back to poetry and dying.
It will be my dust that sparkles,
my ashes that draw your attention.
Until then, I remain… yours truly
sans MFA, sans readers of note,
* * *
So a couple poet friends and I have been mining Pound’s Cantos… you know, sparks of insanity to see what it causes our pens (figuratively speaking) to bleed.