Poetry Isn’t Trending   Out of fashion now —   The long hours spent   Making and doing,   Turning and shaping lines,   For a dwindling clientele   Of other poets and academics   Who might notice   The grain of a line,   A phrase honed smooth   Or left rough as timber.   No one else cares to look.     And yet the trade persists —   If trade is even the word —   Since there is nothing to gain.   A dying art   Like the fletching of arrows,   Or the mending of clocks   With a dex

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