for Bill Knott

A reader draws attention to an article, wherein these two:

Poem

The only response
to a child's grave is
to lie down before it and play dead

Poem

I wrote under a pen name
One day I shook the pen trying to make the name come out
But no it's
Like me prefers clinging to the inner calypso

So I tossed the pen to my pet the
Wastebasket to eat
It'll vomit back the name
Names aren't fit
For unhuman consumption

But no again

It stayed down

I don't use a pen-name anymore
I don't use a pen anymore
I don't write anymore
I just sit looking at the wastebasket
With this alert intelligent look on my face

UPDATE: Fuck that other shit; Bill Knott has a blog, see here.