Master of Fine Arts

Posted on 28 October 2009

I’ll tell my grandchildren about the time—
A Sunday morning, slow and dimly lit
As if hungover, too. I tasted lime,
Corona, coffee; watched the delicate
Footsteps of writers all looking to sit
Way in the back: head ducked, a yawn, slight yelp.
If only they had known I’d whip the wit.
Alan Shapiro, once, asked me for help.

I was the chorus, acting Browning’s rhyme,
With all the lines in Agamemnon’s bit.
Shapiro/me? That’s Longinus’ sublime.
The crowd laughed, doubled-clutched, like they were slit
And slayed. We loved your reading, though, no, it
Was not my own. Brown nose, I am a whelp
To his sensei, option to requisite.
Alan Shapiro, once, asked me for help

And we should take it on the road: a hit—
Black girl, a Jew; keepin’ it real l’chaim;
We’d bear libations, Browning duo, shit
Hitting the fans at Breadloaf, ‘Chester, prime
8:15 spots to hawk the mic and spit.
I’m parasitic plankton to his kelp.
But O, that man is head to toe legit.
Alan Shapiro, once, asked me for help.

And we won’t stop, can’t stop; and we won’t quit
Bringing raw flavor to your ear; yes, s’welp
Our common God. Jesus. May have a fit.
Alan Shapiro, once, asked me for help.


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