A Prophet Of Literary Movements

If his voice were to make me
An expatriate a transcendentalist and classicist
As he goes
Over apartheid and he has
Become all the
Plaster hidden vines
Of drunken sunlight. It
Starts and
Ends as long as
Nothing is gained or lost and rarely
Ever does it. I
Appreciate the silence of his
Carrying trends the suspicion of each
Succession. As each fades among colors and
Night then each builds upon songs left by
Careless birds. Anyone may find to use
Them he
Will not go to Paris
To Walden to Philadelphia
Because he has been and each morning
The written handles on what has past and what will come
Play upon
The pamphlets
And poems he
Has written
Besides.

Such an odd type of bird!
Look…it is perching in ink,
Voice readied to proclaim
The heir of so many
Lost
Generations. A quill of its own feather

Fallen on
The
Floor. Someone

Has already started the Novel