The Poets are Coming While a hurricane with the affable name of Bob whips the coast like a sick mule and hoses all from extreme altitude and many angles, we truck down to town for whiskey, smoke and meat. Out of the way, scum. The poets are coming! We are bad and love it. Snideness is ours by right. Hwock-ptoo. We spit on bliss--we save our nurturing for our many grudges. The voodoo drums will not cease in the white middle-class air. Out in the dark lurk poets, staplegunning bloody chicken feet to the bumpers of BMWs and scrawling with soap their quatrains of Dada. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.