Everybody’s got a song they’ve gotta sing. So they say. So they think. Everybody’s got a pair of fat thighs they believe they can just crush together & crank out the golden tunes, ye olde razzmatazz, & the opposition will drop like— no, I’m not going there. I’m gonna sit here awhile, & watch the dew drop: its letting go so lurid a metaphor for failure, I can’t help but take it out of circulation. Everybody’s hungry, everybody’s hunkered in their hedges, hanging on – in the end nothing’s left to talk about but Style.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
