Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with non-poetic words. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 30:
The novel men of New York
are the men that God made mad
For all their wrongs look noble
And all their virtues bad
See the senior gents from Florida
Are the gents of unsound mind
Their manners there are shocking
Their annoyances refined
But the younger guys from Cali
are the psychopathic freaks
Their minds filled up with plainness
Their bodies with mystique
Yet my sweeter men from Illinois
Will show up rather wise
They engineer their picnics
Their science? Improvise.
