The Brave Poem by Ken Babstock

That's not what we liked. It wasn't for us.
It was pinned to a stream. Ear-marked.
The arriviste mashed up with the avant-garde.
We didn't go for that. That wasn't us.

It wasn't quite right. Lacked focus.
Might have tickled the kids, the simple,
Or those others on that other coast,
but not us. It wasn't what we liked.

It was riding a riptide of research
from Pittsburgh. Big deal. Where
was the spit, the spark, the goatish
smell of the real? Who could tell air

from gas, music from dirge, dinghy
from ark amid all that saleable merch?
I'm saying we didn't like it.
And we didn't. How much? Not much.

We couldn't get in. There were no
knobs on its doors. Goes to show
some prefer building walls and floors
to keep us here, outside, looking in.

That's not what we liked and we disliked
when we did with some vigour. Active.
Off the couch and out with the X. Heave
to with No, No, No, and especially Not.

If there were a key here I'd make that ‘No'
bigger. Is it clear what wasn't on for us?
It's about cutting out rot. About rigour. About
the men in acumen and the small made

smaller. We didn't like it from the get go.
It was under the sheets as boys, now
it's everywhere and not. Not liking's like
affirming we're here while stretching here

to include whatever isn't. And we're right.
Show me something we didn't like and I'll
show you airtight. Excruciatingly tight.
It wasn't for us and won't be. Ever. Trust me.