Nobody reads poetry anymore.
You
can't even find good ol' Carl Sandburg
in Bookshop Santa Cruz anymore.
You
can't name anything Ginsberg wrote before the
Howl, or even after anymore.
You
can't get invited to dinner parities
quoting T.S Elliot anymore.
You
can't seduce a beautiful girl
reciting Neruda anymore.
And
Shell Silverstine is the last thing you
remember being interesting.
And
everyone was running around
claiming to have read Rumi, hasn't.
And
Gwedlyn Brooks is loved for that one
poem, in part because it is alive,
but mostly because its short.
And
the kids go to hear poetry
slams,
and
the poetry slammer yell the words out
because it means more if you just
say it louder.
While
the schools make the kids write
Haiku without love.
While
rappers try to find words that rhyme
with feminism and capitalism.
While
Paradise remains lost to Milton and to
you.
While
the poetry books sit on the bargain shelves of
book stores.
Untouched Unopened
Cold and alone,
like forgotten lovers
taking up space till the book store closes
its doors,
for good.
Still,
somewhere out there, everyday, everywhere
there is a boy
falling in love for the first
time with the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.
And the words he chooses next will change everything.
13'
