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The Gurus of my Youth in Junk-Shop Myths – Sonnet Seventy-Eight
The gurus of my youth in junk-shop myths,
In mid-night robes of thrift-store overcoats,
In quart beer vulgate prophesies consist
The mirror of their billboard soapbox hopes.
Like Whitman’s ghost on D.C. streets ignores
The calls of poets hungry 3 A.M.,
The chill of Fall in Summer’s night deplores,
That even he, our modern words condemn.
Our journals filled with cursive runic prose,
Expose our nature of mind’s deconstruct,
Foucault and Derrida, their damned suppose
That subtext held the key to all words’ flux.
My aspirations as a writher seen
As means of words that nothing truly mean.
In mid-night robes of thrift-store overcoats,
In quart beer vulgate prophesies consist
The mirror of their billboard soapbox hopes.
Like Whitman’s ghost on D.C. streets ignores
The calls of poets hungry 3 A.M.,
The chill of Fall in Summer’s night deplores,
That even he, our modern words condemn.
Our journals filled with cursive runic prose,
Expose our nature of mind’s deconstruct,
Foucault and Derrida, their damned suppose
That subtext held the key to all words’ flux.
My aspirations as a writher seen
As means of words that nothing truly mean.
Published 30th Jul 2019
Author's Note
"writher" in line thirteen is intentional - the line "My Aspirations as a Rider" is from Tupac Shakur - so the joke was "my aspirations as a writer..." but in the spirit of the French New Wave critical theorists - "writher" as in one who writhes seems much closer to the life of a writer... You get it!? The story of seeing Whitman's ghost at the Jefferson Memorial at 3 am is from a college friend.
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30th Jul 2019 4:16pm
31st Jul 2019 3:24am
