Is the American psyche terminally fucked up? Prolly. I’m sick of it. Here’s an old poem, mostly an Italian sonnet by construction, on something about cognitive development, not that that was the original intent; there was zero intention, except to describe someone. The rest happened like a bad car accident. I found the extreme collision with the pun unavoidable at the time. Whoever said I could drive? Not me. If you want Wallace Stevens, go read Stevens, or Snoop Dogg. I did like the idea of putting words into the container of a specific meter and rhyme, because otherwise, “it’s like playing tennis without a net.” Once upon a time, deigning to write in metered verse was pretentious, if not tendentious. Piffle, poffle. If you can’t have a dreary slide into nostalgia now and again, what’s the point?
