about

ass, abecedarian, and bacchanal
—luther

a part-time poet and a full-time fool
bespectacled before it was cool,
cooped in my attic, that lazy
den, i taught myself to an immortal pen:
each thought, all feelings, every hue
found fashion for round rhythms new;
gestalts next grafted, histories hewed
in rhymes askant, jocund, yet true—
kisses too, i cusped:— and all the hazy
lusts of life made dance like crazy
mannequins upon my page, numinous stage
never feigned nor fixed to fit the frames
of publishers whose art is profit、
prosy critics (quislings to their cause)、
rushing readers、shameless swedes、
translators that smudge fine subtleties. . .
utter freedom from such tyrants, & for one's art
vindicates a stubborn heart.
¿what remains but to bemuse
xenophones with one last ruse:
yanks loathe spelling, but for us well-bred
z is pronounced how it's said!