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John Latta

Two poems


Pixiness in the sun-rubble,

Gangsters chucking champ goods all

Through Elysium neighborhoods, debits enter’d

In a column mark’d ‘plausible

Trouble.’ The consequence of genre

Is furniture. One way of

Maintaining dignity in stark arousal.

One way of seeing how

Measure under duress is insistence,

An unmistakable bulge. Going downtown

To scoop up something ‘rustical,

Too pointless for the city’

Or acting like a kid

With a sandwich-end teetering

Between two fingers, or half-

Way up to a mouth.


Essence is just a quibble

With something or other, raw

Opprobrium for a trifling delinquency

Or pun, something to throw

A penny-heaven rife with

Earnests up against the yardstick

Of our appetite for naught.

To put a vogue rude

Noise to it: what I

Mean is the qualms you

Undergo — faint at the prick

Of consciousness — cut the quick

And ‘tetch the Entiretie’ of

The comprehend’d slot, there where

One’s stuff is ‘leaky Blab’

And one’s word sweetly quare.

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