write some skinny poems—
James Schuyler
Life is rough, as
Rough as you make it.
Is it better to be the
Best at something, or is a
Gentleman’s C enough,
At least occasionally?
I used to think it was—
I used to think whatever
Felt like thought was sheer
Pleasure, but I’m old now:
It’s all edges, edges and
Scraps, like a collage.
I thought that continuity
Was everything, and now I
Think it’s a mirage, like a
Sound-effect or an echo,
A reflection of what flows
Inexorably beneath. “Man
Is the measure of all things”:
Protagoras. Plato refuted
Him, to no avail—you can’t
Argue with a blank stare:
“Here I stand.” I hate poems
Of affirmation, poems too
Unaware, too smooth
To be true. Life is rough.