Nice Language, Mouth

I'm pretty late on the Jack Spicer train, but so is the rest of the world. At least Peter Gzzi thinks so. That's why in a January issue a The Nation (for which he now edits the poetry section) he plopped down 2 Spicer nuggets. Nuggets for super liberals. I'm stealing one so you don't have to subscribe. But you should. Subscribe I mean.

2 poems by Jack Spicer

Pieces of the past arising out of the rubble. Which evokes Eliot and then evokes Suspicion
Ghosts all of them. Doers of no good.

The past around us is deeper than.
Present events defy us, the past

Has no such scruples. No funeral processions for him. He died in agony. The cock under the thumb.

Rest us as corpses
We poets
Vain words.
For a funeral (as I live and breathe and speak)
Of good
And impossible
Dimensions.

The blog title comes from something my Dad used to say to me when I'd talk shit. Usually in his direction. It was also this guys name in a 1985 American Tribute to Orphans-