Sense enough to know that the way to be found,
in addition to not getting lost at all, is to inform all within
earshot the name of your hometown, and then to keep
current with the kitchen plates and the patio furniture
that decorate kodak moments and otherwise adorn the velvet
curtain of the soul, the back-lit, blacklight palace of the mind
Is to steal a glimpse before Professor Mahone rolls a sad eye into
the faculty lounge. Nothing in new American sonnets is any more
lazy than Nebraska corn, which doesn’t ask to be husked, either.
Let bloodsport color dialect – never classical, always vulgar.