missed by every movement, exile of
every glare-ridden trend, never the
tissue of any issue, I traipse to the
bookstore to see if I’ve arrived in
any index, not, notice, as a relevant
subject, but as a slur, since one’s
hunger gets even down to that: no,
no: in Nature Writing, nothing:
nothing in poetics: unbeat: well,
I’ve proved Emerson unimaginably
wrong: one can live in one’s time,
and lucky for it, with no involvement
in its politics: I love the chicanery,
fraudulence, expedience, greed of
the political (read, human) world—
those allow, those qualities, for so
much invention, unprescribed variety
but my time line, such as it is,
shears the peaks off politicos’
peaks: I’m not in Nature Writing
because I’ve been too deep in nature
to notice: nobody noticed: oh, well,
it was enough to see: except on a
cold, windy, clear Sunday afternoon
with not a damn thing doing: then
one’s heart longs to be noticeably
dismissed, at least: in the still
pond of nothingness, rock the boat
or there won’t be any waves: someday
I’m going to write on how Stevens
makes his be buzz: I am: scram: