by Jeffrey Jullich
I Shall Kill Salman Rushdie the Blasphemer
Many poets, tired of buttons and zippers,
are saying goodbye to ready-to-wear. Bonjour, couture.
A poet, wearing a flouncy Azedine Alaia
creation cinctured below the bust,
is political whenever politics is governed
by Jupiter in Aquarius.
An African-American poet does wear a cap.
Poets have taken to furnishing their rooms
with simple wicker.
They are buying paper. The paper is good.
They do not know what to do with all their money
flooding in from poetry readings and sales of their books,
so most poets purchase couture.
Yves St. Laurent slit at the side and cut to the knee
still has an allure and timelessness
perfect for the work of poetry. A flouncy de la Renta
decolletage, bunched at the midriff and tapered
to a seamless shoulder, can contribute a carefree air
to any poet slumped over manuscripts.
It can add such an air. A slight mention of Agnès B.
at the neck-line, in worm's-wool or a more practical
tartan, allows those nature visits
so vital to the inspiration of the poet
to go the way they need to go,
like a zephyr behind auroras.
Rain gear, whether from the showroom or
straight from the rack, needs a colored and cuffed
seriousness so typical of Yoji Yamamoto
for poets out-of-doors truly to feel
the savagery of their bone-bleached muse.
Those of us who were sure
we had dry-cleaned our last Ralph Lauren
may be surprised at how effectively Ralph Lauren
holds up in the wind-beaten wilds of Mother Nature.
We can make poems in double-sided parkas,
fleece-lined boots, embonpoint at the heel,
hosiery courtesy of Carneval.
first published in Tyuonyi, 1989
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