This is such strange and most beastly stuff.
Grand themes are called for–glorious cantos–
not bone-marrow-sucked-dry old bones, dust
to be swept up and tossed out. Sure and tough
poetry, able to set people ambling
into life chockfull of such light and ferocity
as to think love teeming with logos and theos.
This is such crabbed tracings of canticles,
away with such poetry–no more writing such piffle.
I am cribbed in soft chantings of shibboleths.
Find a new voice. Be fierce to avoid
tame stuff. Be hard and sere to your heart.
(This is an oldie from 20 years ago)