I like poems about music.
So there were TWO poets named Phillips on this year’s NBA (National Book Award, although with Kobe’s recent long, free-verse, lyrical adieu, I can understand your confusion) long list, Patrick and Rowan Ricardo. Rowan Ricardo Phillips. The anagram of his name shows there that IS a simple solution to unwanted holiday waist gain: "Hips pill: cardio war on." Further, he was born and raised in New York, and splits his time between there and Barcelona. He speaks Spanish and has done literary translations. He’s also won a slew of awards and taught at a bevy of prestigious schools. I hope you enjoy this one, and I hope you get some great holiday time off with your families! -ed.
Both guitars run trebly. One noodles
Over a groove. The other slushes chords.
Then they switch. It’s quite an earnest affair.
They close my eyes. I close their eyes. A horn
Blares its inner air to brass. A girl shakes
Her ass. Some dude does the same. The music’s
Gone moot. Who doesn’t love it when the bass
Doesn’t hide? When you can feel the trumpet peel
Old oil and spit from deep down the empty
Pit of a note or none or few? So don’t
Give up on it yet: the scenario.
You know that it’s just as tired of you
As you are of it. Still, there’s much more to it
Than that. It does not not get you quite wrong.