O YOU BEAUTIFUL
YOUNG READERS OF POETRY
O YOU beautiful young readers of poetry, and especially you beautiful young men—
Have pity on my dried-up talent. Forgive my reveling here in this light.
I have lived one hundred ninety-five years, each one boring-er than the last. Yóu
Have all the satisfactions of anonymity before you.
Love for that luminescent beauty has made me quite transparent. When her
Rays pass through me, I have to take care not to focus them on a FUSE.
What is Christianity, anyway? Is it a theological tractate? Or merely
Whatever answers the needs of people standing at gravesites—?
Every grave has a silver lining. That boy for whom I pined
Was nothing more than a clump of earth from the lip of such a grave.
I am guilty; I am cause of guilt; but I am also guilt’s cure:
For whoever takes one look at me immediately feels a comparative saint.
The taint of the PSEUDO-MARTYR is upon me; I won’t deny it. My injured mouth
Is bleeding away like a gaudy Mexican crucifix;—
MADRID, you effervescing piece of fuckass magma! anyone can see
How much better this poetry would be if it were written by a twenty-five-year-old punk.
ANTHONY MADRID lives in Chicago. His poems have recently appeared or are
forthcoming in AGNI Online, Cincinnati Review, Forklift Ohio, LIT, Now Culture,
PANK, 6X6, Shampoo, and WEB CONJUNCTIONS. The title of his manuscript is
THE GETTING RID OF THE THAT WHICH CANNOT BE DONE WITHOUT.