accomplished enough
to talk so much—
excusing and
typing, reciting
and refusing—yet
nothing we say
hews even close
to the truth?
There's just
so much serviceable
music in the world,
we must think
to ourselves,
but not enough
jobbers out there
cranking out
librettos—
and so, with
resoluteness
akin to pioneers,
astronauts,
soldiers entrenched
in their foxholes,
we atomize
forbearance and
perfume the air
with pleasant
patter, crows,
and blues; we
sidle-up
to complicit
partners, grit
our teeth and part
our gums—and fire
out the news.
