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They bleed history. That is the outpouring. In that flood of legacy, poets are the buoys ringing a way home. But just when did bards get so damned prissy? Shit. They once led the charge and marked out hallowed ground. It was they who whipped rivers of opportunity into raging froth. They foresaw the coming complacency and time kicked their great great great grandsons in the balls - to wake them up before they were born or borne away into someone else's past. For that, you need time travelers, artists. You need real poets, not word weenies driven only to exult horticulture nor shallow self indulgent verse druggies rambling unintelligibly. Poets, real poets, are not needed to embellish the incense of flowers but rather to incense the weeds, we, the disapproved, the embattled. Poets pollenate duration with contention. Poets frieze time and time is conflict. Not too too far from here, Carrickfergus Castle on the craggy carrick, rock jutting out on the north shore of Belfast Lough, stands as a testimony to embattlement. The best defended castle of Ulster, as it were, a Norman stronghold, passed hands as if it were a water bucket in a fire line. Lackland siege took it, Edward Bruce hit it hard, William III got his hands on it and from here launched his campaign of 1690. It even fell into the hands of the French at one time. From either of the two towers of Carrickfergus you could have witnessed the American naval upstart John Paul Jones lashing out at the HMS Drake. Thus it is with castles and arms, they need bodies. Therein is the flaw of permanence, the stitch which pulls then runs, and so doing runs anywhere yielding to an infinity of possible destinies. There is no permanence. Arrogance is a belief in permanence. Ignorance is the blood of arrogance. He was a big man, a very big man in improbable working attire, cross leather laced heavy boots, a coarse flannel work shirt, high rolled sleeves, front buttoned only in the