Sunday, August 8, 2010


The paleo-poets pursue the day to put their books in print
like vampires stalk the night to brand the living dead,
to hold their trophies triumphantly in their hands,
to seize their fancy jackets and bend their spines
as the blood of trees drools down from their lips
and near-death print-presses are drained dry of ink,
to see them stacked like corpses in mausoleums
in the bookstores and libraries that the electro-poets pass by.