There's a part of me I can't get to,
The me revealed in confessional poetry,
The kind of plumbing of the soul
   That lets the waters of the past rush through.
I haven't found the twists and alleys
   Where unspeakable carnivores lie in wait,
   Where the mad geniuses of my youth,
   Found for 35 cents
   In Startling Stories and Astounding Science Fiction,
   Stand before their beakers and retorts,
   Brewing an assimilation of the future and the past,
Where Letters from Readers might find you a mate for life,
And the tentacled populace (by Emsh and Cartier)
Might in their own pulpy way find a cure for cancer or bring peace to
			the galaxy.
When I found my Startling and Astounding artifacts,
The primitive paper was already yellow, crumbling, falling apart to the
   touch.
The covers folded,
Images (lo! Schomburg and Rogers) faded,
Staples rusted,
The coupon for a trip to the moon already clipped out.


11/10/00

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