NO WONDER
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/247/1/NO-WONDER/Page1.html
Bill Knott
Bill Knott is the author of some of the America's finest, most original poetry. It is impossible to discuss post-modern American poetry without focusing on the singular vision of Bill Knott. A true maverick, a master revered by the finest poets of our time, Knott has been virtually ignored by both the American poetry establishment and the "avante garde." Among his many volumes of poetry are: The Quicken Tree, Outremer (Iowa Poetry Prize), Poems 1963-1988, Selected and Collected Poems, Rome in Rome, Love Poems to Myself, Nights of Naomi, Autonecrophilia, Aurealism, and The Naomi Poems. The selection below is from Knott's manuscript, Plaza de Loco.By Bill Knott
Published on 10/6/2003
There is no place in the United States
Where you cannot arrange a murder
For a couple of thousand dollars or
Less, she said. This was Des Moines, Iowa,
But I can't remember the occasion—
I can't even remember her name, or what
Her eyes looked like when I kissed them
Where you cannot arrange a murder
For a couple of thousand dollars or
Less, she said. This was Des Moines, Iowa,
But I can't remember the occasion—
I can't even remember her name, or what
Her eyes looked like when I kissed them
There is no place in the United States
Where you cannot arrange a murder
For a couple of thousand dollars or
Less, she said. This was Des Moines, Iowa,
But I can't remember the occasion—
I can't even remember her name, or what
Her eyes looked like when I kissed them
Or almost anything else.
Forgetting is a kind of murder, I guess.
But if, as my aunt said about writing poetry,
You don't get no money for it, why do it?
And why this poem; failed mnemonic
That costs less than its insipid desire
To seem sincere, seem serious, does.
Copyright © Bill Knott, 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Where you cannot arrange a murder
For a couple of thousand dollars or
Less, she said. This was Des Moines, Iowa,
But I can't remember the occasion—
I can't even remember her name, or what
Her eyes looked like when I kissed them
Or almost anything else.
Forgetting is a kind of murder, I guess.
But if, as my aunt said about writing poetry,
You don't get no money for it, why do it?
And why this poem; failed mnemonic
That costs less than its insipid desire
To seem sincere, seem serious, does.
Copyright © Bill Knott, 2003 All Rights Reserved.