Truly, I've had enough of Nebraska,
Of peasants and get-along drones
From the suburbs. I wish I could
Find a salon to join, a group of
Great artists, perhaps in Provence,
Who'd be witty and well-read,
And sophisticated. We'd trade
Subtle in-jokes and show our
New works to each other, and all
Would know what we'd achieved.
Then again, I am prickly, and
All-too suspicious of self -conscious
Members of the avant-garde.
I would turn away quickly from
Any salon, being clearly the bumpkin,
The autodidact. In the end, in my
Sadness, I'd fly from Provence
To the vacuum of Omaha, to my
True home, a Whitman or Ryder,
Or Poe, one more crank, to
The side of the road, to the fence
By a field, to produce what nobody
Will see.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2017-04-04 at 00:57

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Ivan R
I like these thoughts

Isn't “Crank” a slang for a low purity, crystallized Methamphetamine that is administered in a powder form? I am trying to figure out the metaphor that's used in here. My thinking is muddled. Nonetheless, a fine poem. "I'll fly to home to produce something that nobody will see" makes me sad, though.

Christopher Fernie
Dear Larry,

Your can crank me up anytime... see you on the Left Bank soon!

With best wishes, as always,


alarian The PoetBay support member heart!
you are probably both in one context