shepard fairey








gustav dore

our boys

death and burial


Sunday, October 13, 2013


when that voice from twenty years ago
asked as before: “why should we care
about this person, why would we

be moved?” I still couldn't say.

and when my favorite parts of my twenty-year-old
“poems”—the “too-easy” parts—still seemed
the best, and still satisfied me most,

I began to wonder: was this all some mistake?

my enthusiasm immersing me, once more
again beyond my ken? perhaps I was never a “writer”
in the first place; that would explain much; perhaps

my “poems” were simply remarkably lifelike

facsimiles, nothing more, something near,
but not quite, like a life: aping ethics, moral
concern and compassion, enough to fool me

(a mere stylist, not a jot more)

for twenty long years into the thousand... well,
what then shall we call them, if not poems,
then what? I had no answer; still,

I had this; one more, another whatever

you call it. but as to why you should
care at all, or even why I do, if I do,
I still have nothing.