HART CRANE
Harold Bloom is dead I don’t have to worry About his academic attacks On others with That sniveling, self assured Intellect His smug, all knowing, pretentious smirk Like the sailors Who threw Hart Crane From a ship After he made a pass At probably all of them And they threw him Into the Atlantic Ocean And then wiped their hands Hands before Having a drink together In the ships bar Because there used to be Bars even in Air Force bases They said it was suicide Crane's lonely bones On the bottom of the ocean floor The man who wrote ‘Pile on the logs... Give me your hands, Friends! No - It is not fright... But hold me... Somewhere I heard demands... And on the window licks the night.’ Alone on the ocean floor With only his boots remaining How poetic. Bloom and i Both loved Crane Even though Neither of us, Despite what Bloom claimed, Understood what Crane Was trying to say, But when I saw that bloom Had died while Reading his Wikipedia Article I said, well, no more Unwanted hands Gripping undergraduate thighs And lectures on how to improve Grades. Bloom is gone Dead Remembered in over 40 Different languages (Who reads literary critique anyways?) I can’t think of Any lines of romanticism To commemorate him Because I’m just relieved Knowing that I’ll never have to Worry about his immediate Dismissal of my work And the laughing of Academics as they throw The non-Hart Crane’s stuff In the trash.
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