NOW NOT FOR NOTHING
I've got bad knees like Rimbaud,
walking across Europe or whatever
he did; arms-dealer for some mighty
nation at the helm. They cut his leg
off, but was it for barter and how did
he die again? I vaguely remember only
certain things. Charleville?
-
Lots of stuff about 'Maman' - ended
up he was a mamma's boy for sure. All
the poetry endures, but the adventures
are more. Verlaine, Rimbaud, even
Baudelaire, and me.
-
Now, it's not for nothing that I ramble on.
My knives get sharpened by the wind. I
settle for little else but that. Honed to a
museum-like perfection, I could be on
exhibit as a fine example of mid-century
nothing much at all. There's got to be a
place for that on some collector's shelf.
Right?
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