Long Ago and Far Away: A Rant in Four Diminishing Reverse Revisions

Exile them all!
- Plato



fourth



Crescent of shame: diaspora

of blue wanderers. On flag staffs,

they swing, nooses of ice

finally arrive from the Ninth Circle.






third


Stowed on ships, evacuated

from burning Crescent: diaspora

of blue wanderers. A remnant

lashed to flag staffs, swing from

tall buildings, necks in nooses of ice

sent up from the Ninth Circle.






second


A host of poets, artists,

musicians are stowed in Navy vessels, removed

from the burning Crescent: diaspora

of blue wanderers. State approved

editors lash themselves to flag staffs, swing out

from tall buildings, necks in nooses of ice

brought up from the Ninth Circle.






first


An unnumbered host

of poets, artists, musicians are stowed

in Navy vessels, removed

from the burning Crescent of Jazz, spirited away: diaspora

of blue wanderers.

Hear the mobs of perfect mutants jeer

Leave us clichéd fools!

Poetry does nothing!

While editors of the state

lash themselves to flag staffs and swing out

from tall buildings, necks in nooses of ice

brought up from the Ninth Circle.





original


A thousand poets line the avenue, their

corpuscular fluids river down from nails,

from sword slashes, vermillion Mississippis flood

Deltas of damning passion. Their crucifixes tower

above a taunting rabble, He didn't use language

we could understand! Her womb is barren

of images! He used the word soul!

Garish faces leer, hands poke

teacher sticks into wounds. He didn't read

books bearing the imprimateur of our holy

POET LAUREATE; who, even now, is pushed down

in the street, forced to lick dust. The Philosopher King fuels

the true church's thinkers, who turn Dialogues

into a bible, bent on banishing those whose only transgression

is the love of beauty in all its forms. An innumerable host

of poets, artists, musicians are stowed

in Navy vessels, removed

from the burning Crescent of Jazz, spirited away: diaspora

of blue wanderers.

Hear the mobs of perfect mutants jeer

Leave us clichéd fools!

Poetry does nothing!

While editors of the state

lash themselves to flag staffs and swing out

from tall buildings, necks in nooses of ice

brought up from the Ninth Circle.