Michael S. Judge, Death Is Just Around the Corner


Well-known member
you can sort all poets into nerds, jocks, jocks pretending to be nerds, and nerds pretending to be jocks

constant escape

winter withered, warm
But arguably as the poetic instinct intensifies, all taxonomies begin to flounder, in terms of designation, no?

Which isn't necessarily to say that there aren't serious poets who would condone or even embrace the category they've been assigned to. Just that the driving force behind them seems to be negatively predicated on the categorizational schema itself, which doesn't necessarily mean that they are.


Who loves ya, baby?
Europe Central.
A squat black telephone, I mean an octopus, the god of our Signal Corps, owns a recess in Berlin (more probably Moscow, which one German general has named the core of the enemy's whole being). Somewhere between steel reefs, a wire wrapped in gutta-percha vibrates: I hereby...zzZZZZZ...the critical situation...a crushing blow. But because these phrases remain unauthenticated (and because the penalty for eavesdropping is death), it's not recommended to press one's ear to the wire, which bristles anyhow with electrified barbs; better to sit obedient, for the wait can't be long; negotiations have failed. Away flees Chamberlain, crying: Peace in our time. France obligingly disinterests herself in the Prague government. Motorized columns roll into snowy Pilsen and keep rolling. Italy foresees adventurism's reward, from which she would rather save herself, but, enthralled by the telephone, she somnambulates straight to the balcony to declare: We cannot change our policy now. We are not prostitutes. The ever-wakeful sleepwalker in Berlin and the soon-to-be-duped realist in the Kremlin get married. This will strike like a bomb! laughs the sleepwalker. All over Europe, telephones begin to ring.