Frederick Seidel

Here’s a naked fellow dressed up in some clothes, Arrogantly flaunting what he actually loathes – The Savile Row swagger and the nonchalant pose! He’s who he isn’t and he makes sure it shows.

I’m Nobody! Who are you? I’m thinking, what would mother do? And what would Kafka if he knew? Emily Dickinson was Nobody, too!

I’d say the day looks like...

Hemingway and Wallace Stevens got in a fight, Drunken fisticuffs in Paris over who was right. En garde! Put up your dukes! Then one of them suddenly pukes. The moon turned into the sun overnight.

Pound isn’t on Mount Rushmore yet. Support to put Pound there is hard to get. Add Ezra Pound to Mount Rushmore! Add his face to the other presidents! Let South Dakota hear his antique

A man with the bulging belly of the rich man of his tribe, Older than middle-aged, and of course with many wives, Possibly the tribal chief but possibly a tribal scribe Who eats and drinks a lot and abundantly thrives, Walks through Central Park to get to the Met, And, after, over to Madison, destination Sant’ Ambroeus, A restaurant whose name rhymes with enjoy us, To meet and eat...

Down below Riverside Park, On the river side of the West Side Highway, I walked along the bicycle path The Hudson flows past hugely, Across the way from New Jersey.

And on the other side of the river, The New Jersey side, full of ugly, I saw miserable architecture, I saw the efforts to make something, I saw somethings that were nothing.

On a stroll near Gracie Mansion Along the walkway...

The motorcycle looks somewhat dated but is indisputably an angel. Like an electric chair before the current goes on. Like an electric chair before the switch is thrown. You’ve eaten your last meal, the priest has left the room. The motorcycle between your legs is an angel Revving its desmodromic basso profondo into a scream. It’s Massimo Tamburini’s great 1994 Ducati 916...