On the Poems of Ben Roosevelt
Seat yourselves. Everything will dim.
Jets will descend.
Waters below, opaque as brandy.
Lush tents are pitched.
The bosom of the night,the milk of the lamplight.
The faucets remain. Their sovereign brass.
(not one of the better poems of that era, and not a worthy tribute to ben. that said, i like the lamplight’s sovereign brass, whatever the crap that means. and it’s important we circulate these artifacts. then again, maybe i shouldn’t write something if i’m concerned it won’t make sense to other people, let alone myself. maybe i shouldn’t defray the munchkins if they won’t think less of the steeple, let alone bi health.)