for a poem still in progress

this poem shall be a cry:
i will take the pleas of holy Eliot
and rip them off of my wall for the seventh time
in the means of verse (little semi-pentameter couplets,
at that, which T.S. could appriciate).

i will sacrifice the creation of High Art
for now: Pound will beat me once i get to Poets' Heaven
(which most people call "Hell")
but for this poem i will take the blows
and grin.

this poem is a requiem - an ode to the soon-to-be-fallen
at age 20-1—
the one who is quarter-dead
and realizes such.

this poem will not be High—
it will become high.
it will be molded and beaten
until all ugliness bleeds from its spaces
and line breaks, and it is reborn
as something on High.

then Pound will pride himself in me again
and instead of me he will help me beat the hell
out of this poem to get it to straighten up
and fly right—
fly up High
as a cry
for this poet, only quarter-dead.

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