Doesn't need one.
At Jerry's latest Northtown Books reading-
new drool-, caress-, or frame-worthy Tangram chapbook,
150 signed limited editions-
Dante introduced Jerry as, If Humboldt
has a poet laureate, this is certainly him.
We agree. Even Grandma Jim, begrudgingly,
But we don't much care, even Jerry.
Poetry is a world we walk around in
on a good day. On a bad
we just don't know it. Poetry
here is like farming or the one-
time logging or fishing, a common enough pursuit
so that even abecedarians
mosey in an atmosphere slow and old-
town, pastured and primitive and proud,
goat-like in its will and willingness and reserve-
an atmosphere slow and pungent enough
with this unleaving sway of trees,
trees and what transpires
near the Pacific Ocean, its anthologies of fog,
dissertations of rain, spells of reflection, and these trees,
trees-why, this poem itself mushrooming amid big-
leaf maples releasing leaves with their forest-stirring sounds
and a giant lone redwood left uncut surrounded
by Sequoia neophyteae due to its latter-day char and crown snap
and who needs another committee anyway
and will the Jambalaya doorman let us slip by tonight?
- Zev Levinson