-Wolpe Requiem- with an autobiographical introduction

intro:

O, stargazer, too!–– volunteer
in service to America, woodcutter
to the estate of Albert Pinkham Ryder,
co-author of the term: "Rubens Schmoobins,"

self-ordained poet to the ninety-fourth floor jumpers,
hollow-skinned pinky broom-sticker, butch-headed presenter

of wine and water, obedient gofer to the Lucky Strike stores,

fleet-footed baseline runner and spokesman for all ye
nabbed by Priest, who –– thinks he shits ice-cream!––
that black-haired slicker, combed to a Wildroot

Cream-oiled wave! and you!–– inquisitor to the litigation

of distant Pluto, cold, and helpless to thee I sing!

extract from the opinion pages:

screw the undecided voter!
I too, want to travel 90 miles on a buck’s worth of regular, but

given the weight of sheet-metal, how was that ever possible? 

–– and what am I doing right now you might ask?

the Wolpe Requiem:

well, I’m listening to the music of, let's see, I think... Stefan Wolpe?

hold on. here it is. ah, yes. that’s who. sleeve says: "Stefan Wolpe".