We have scaled back our ambitions, you former poet laureates of these United States. We no longer ramble through reams of stark white paper stacking up metaphors like cordwood, laying up assonance over consonance, setting the keystone analogy in place to build bright temples of the foraging mind. And God forbid no more rhyming.
With Mr. Bukowski we are through with all of that. Have no time for it, in fact.
We now amble through the leavings of our days looking for tin diving bells to sink our tea leaves into roiling water.
Yes, we leave marks for the times to come, no less than you did. But these times say, don’t bore, don’t be difficult, unless you are trying for Literary and the New Yorker in which case you can make it read as though the lobes of your brain aren’t speaking to one another. Oh, and for God’s sake, be brief.
In fact, this has gone on too long already.