Save me from this vanity.
This vanity is such an oddity,
Given to me by Jim Morrison and the Doors.
This marketplace of ideas, lovely ideas from distant shores,
Giving me everything,
Giving me in poetry what poetry adores.
Which. Which. Which.
Which now, centrally,
In the proud center of myself, inside the proud me,
In the center of myself, is the secret of insanity.
A mirror looks at itself. The great D minor concerto in G
Called out to me for the longest time,
As if it couldn’t. As if the “long time” were itself a crime.
I listened. I ignored others for a long time.
I asked no one if I could be excused. I made a motion to leave
And retracting that, I did.
It is important these things, in my poems, that I hid—
Because these things dare to occupy my time—
Even in my poems, they did—
Introversion among objects the greatest crime—
Important you get to know these things now;
They are not mine, but I am going to show them to you, anyhow.
Franz Joseph Hayden!
Send in, without further ado, your 100th symphony.
Joe! I hear from the fat yellow sun you prefer a major key.
Or, the forceful minor.
Polite, we had Jim Morrison over for dinner.
We heard the fine clatter of geese far away.