The little poet writes
nicely of his nice wife,
his nice kids,
his nice university,
the nice dead mice
he found on his nice
snowy road,
and his nice guilt for
sleeping with his
nice student.

but some are tornadoes
of words, whirling,
scattering books out
of the clouds-
Blake the tornado
Whitman the tornado
Neruda the Latin tornado…
Words fly out of their mouths
like spittle or kisses;
their passions and anger
fill the unruly world
and then comes the critic,
creeping along with his
two pairs of pants,
and his reservations
(most of them for lunch)
and his nice distinction,
semantic notions,
and his box full
of paper stars.
He pins one on the forehead
of the nicest poet
because no tornado
stands still long enough.

SAS