Here is the first poem. It was written on a train, and on a bookmark, and therefore it is short. I have a wicked cold and was suffering from a form of caffeine poisoning, so probably not the next "Song of Myself" or whatever, but seriously, I now am full of Nyquil and thus illicit booze and so ha ha.
The Coming American
Something softly nineteen-forties, blouse pulled tight into a slender skirt. Let's be plain-spoken, black and white in silver print, albumen, the shining wave of a permanent. The hat-pin brigade is on its way, the return that keeps on giving, the reel spun backword, satanic lipsync in celluloid. Radio silence. The flag on film. The steaming train in station. Kiddo, don't cry. Your stilettos are out of the box.