In the Poetry Section of Brown University Bookstore, Providence, RI
Poem by Zoe A. Jaimot
When you ask me where are the poets of today —
I can answer you emphatically
that I have seen them skulking
among empty spaces full of pages —
When you ask me where are these modern versifiers —
I can tell you that I have seen them
continually among a fog of books —
And I have seen these geniuses of writing classes
haphazardly thumb through volumes
while they sit among smashed verbs —
that go nowhere on shelves
inscribed and perfect bound
with words that would be
wishing wells for these thick talkers —
for these borrowers of sentiment —
for these poets that carefully
coif and spike their outer anonymity
with streaks of purple angst —
looking like rock stars drugged
by just the proper dactyls
of urban trendiness while
these same self-proclaimed new age poets
circle endlessly in apparent boredom —
like vultures eyeing these aisles to swoop
on those unsuspecting few —
who stop unaware
of this purposely planned introduction
to the “rap” and “spin” of modern verse —
Today’s poets spring silently at their prey —
on boots better made for stomping than alliteration —
and casually pluck their own books from the racks —
and smile with a look of practiced sincerity —
while turning to say, “This person’s pretty good” —
and then ask, “Have you read anything by them?” —
“You really should, you know,” they say
with just a tinge of hipster / peer pressure in their tone —
“Everyone says it’s better than an orgasm,” they add
hoping to lure you with visions of quick sex —
always remembering to look deeply
as they speak the false phrases —
hoping by the guile of personality
to achieve an apotheosis —
they could never reach by words
better left honestly alone.
