Poetry in the Age of Wireless Unfashionable now — The long hours spent Shaping lines, For a dwindling clientele Of other poets Who might still notice The workmanship: The craft, The grain of the line, A phrase honed smooth Or left rough as timber. The rest pass by without looking. And yet the trade persists — If trade is even the word — Not for profit or praise But because past connections Must be held intact Even now, in the wireless age; Because the old

Shut up Here in This Caved Trunk of a Room, On the  Massachusetts Side of a Loose-Fish Land We Call America — and Feeling All at Sea In a World That Is Mad and Wet All Over  I Write down   This,  My Heathen Language. Making waves. Much   INK OIL WAX SPERM BLOOD  Spilled to find the White Whale — Whose mighty tail-flukes billow the sea’s shroud; whose peck-slaps flap and flood six hundred pages of Great American Prosody; whose massive genitalia remind us of Fallen Nature; who