Ben Wannamaker, editor of Fodder Mag, friend, poet, activist of affection and dweller of my heart, wrote this for me(to me) in an email on May 27th, 2010:
Poets have
so much time
on their hands,
creators of terms
and humanization;
head anthropologists
of interrogation and
ringers of real
spirit and reasonability;
bar no one else opting
for a place in this place
where:
the
top
reminds
you
of
you
and
the
bottom
reminds
you
of
you
and
you
can't know
everyones
everything.
Instead we rely to
obscene degrees,
lie
on a sheet and worship
the time the small bolts
left stronger bonds in
the brain; search for our
salad days where things
sure to come never quite
became.
Making change off mystery
is dated.
Misery is peek-a-boo babies
that
don't
get
the joke.
Don't wallow or be afraid, get
flustered or increase the beat
of your individual blood flow;
or really, resort to anything.
Panic?
Why should that be?
We now know
there's no
such thing
as strange
rs;
it's true, the ones
before you lied about
that;
laid In parts, too;
in sheets
like one'll
be lucky
to not be capable of:
even saying
one
did.
And it's true:
we can all
be a pillar
