Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Stephen Paul Miller

Stephen Paul Miller

Calvin

Coolidge died of depression in the Depression.

*****

Slugline

JFK resurrects but it’s too late.

*****

11/04/08

HEY PAL,
FIST BUMP
It feels like JFK not dying.

*****

Bob Holman is So 60

3.10.08—the man, Bob
Hol-the-way-man, and
nothing but the-Holman—this Daddy-o’s all launch. Wanna picture?
Then draw! a
fuzzy spiral
squeezing us together through
plays greater than the Giant Bowl super play—centuries hence
known
only through Bob Holman’s Beatle-like greatness
convening supernatural genius in one skin. Oh, Steve, stop, no,
I mean it. In the Reagan years,
the country would’ve imploded without
Holman, the most important American
since FDR, the president
who in his dying moments
wills his ongoing legacy to
the future Prof. Holman
born three years later
Holman’s March 10, 1948 spring
forward anticipates a
poetry production for use
undercutting all mere poetic bullshit. Then,
in the seventies, Holman’s meteoric rise inaugurates
the poetic mapping of all
things poetic—the Po Cal.
The Poetry Calendar slings Holman
toward a fast approaching moon
coming up on the left.
I’m coming up and
Holman gets the party started and is
charming as shit,
showing newly indigenous lunar life, well, I mean
it was there before but we never heard it singing
till there was Bob oozing infinite intelligence—
a miso-like agent that can become God when
cooked in Holman-like humility, which, unlike modesty,
is no humility at all.
Bob’s production, theater, music, red mc hat
focus you through light-green magnified glass,
all Holman’s poetry
the sun’s left wing-swing—family in the best possible way.
The world loves Bob Holman and
is honored
to be here tonight for
Bob. I love that same Bob and
rise through air’s hoop seeing
all relations in it. The whole man gathers the threads
connecting them up and down
the hole in one Bob the Holy-man thread.
Holman writes the greatest poetry—
one we all emulate—
cuz the human thing—equal parts love and language, love and
marriage—
organizes it,
everything else corny as boring.
Freedom vaults off the spring outside your black hole’s trap door and,
after all, democracy is freedom plus groceries—
free groceries of course, but free of and to and with all sort—
the most awesome groceries!
available in front of this bar courtesy
Bob Whole Food-Man Productions.
I am battle, my body
carried to West Point
by poor Buffalo soldiers.
Which Indians did I massacre again?
Man, I was out to establish myself.
But Bob Holman
being all things
enjoys the jostling of all electric messages inside.
The sixties are earth, yet Bob, not sixty, is
now on Mars. You missed him on the moon
but he leaves robots to turn on when you arrive.
Instruments of universal birthday—mechanisms
of universal birth on the first day of the moon—
are lost in space
but luckily so is space
and the red-blue radar shift of
time equaling energy as idea and idea as energy
shimmers as Bob speaks.

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