Date: Fri, 20 Jun 1997 14:50:22 CDT From: Jackson Jeffrey A Subject: EXERCISE: Finish This Poem! So here's the thing: I was going through some of my papers recently and came across some scraps on which were recorded (by me; I recognized my own handwriting) the beginnings of a poem. I vaguely remember working on the poem, but have absolutely no idea what I was trying to accomplish with it. I'm not even sure which draft of the completed lines are the most recent. Essentially, I have no idea what I was doing or where I was going with this poem. I thought of asking the list for comments and suggestions, but we all know how that has been going as of late. So instead, I thought I would give everyone an exercise. How would you complete this poem? (Aside from the obvious answer of "I wouldn't complete it. It's dribble!") By the way, I did have a title for the poem as well, which I include with it, though there is not much insight into the poem from this title. So feel free to come up with your own title. Change it anyway you want. This is an exercise. Nothing more. Yours, etc., Jackson Shot to Death Eating Breakfast: The Calliope Doxology There on the cloistered balcony he sits, draped in a hairshirt robe with matching slippers, eyes blurred by the pillow primordial, by the visions of brown study, lips even now burning from the coals, potted as a sun-baked fern, feeling his thoughts through quill-calloused hands. Below, the boys in rusted pick-ups and backer-browned chevies, move about on asphalt, unaware of the stare of these catalogue eyes, racing their engines, popping the clutch, to the b-beat of golden old and the voice of morning jocks shouting sunshine, finding truth in the funny papers, their justice in the box scores. Set apart, he offers his hymn, still hidden from sight by early fog and the hanging of fuzzy dice, while a filthy film from a sap-sweating elm stains the pane of a beat '63-- a clunker with moth-eaten seats and rust. There it is so far. Have fun.