after the announcement of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature
Last week, a voice won
because it was heard.
Can you have claimed any
other victory to be yours?
Didn’t the voice, mellow
rattle your walls without
need to bellow? Unplugged
plugged in, from Desolation
to Duquesne, don’t you still
hear the voice blowing,
as constant as a bullfrog’s croak
in the world’s rainiest place?
For real, now the eastern state
of Meghalaya, India, is no more
eastern than Woodstock was
white. So while you complain
from your golf carts, I pray
one day that the Prize also be
handed to the black man who
played the guitar with his teeth
because that to me is poetry.
