For a Duck May be Somebody's Mother

So, speaking of postmodern poetry, you know what I’d like. I’d like somebody to tell me why this isn’t a good postmodern poem (and not just a bad poem period).

Postmodern Poem 2

Jazz is dripping from the ceiling
wheeling abstract keyboards
falling faster miles an hour
but roadrunner no it’s not.

Second verse stickier than
the first amendment and the voices,
the visiting extraterrestrials
listen: wherever the river veers
sliding dice-like along the long
gutter earnestly and nicely
in lawns and liver spots but not
tennis elbows beset with better
homes and garden apartments
mint breath breezy sleepy
and priceless by a third:

there comes the quiet cornerstone.

But after that easy chore is accomplished, you know what I would like better than Josh Corey’s series of Grood poets or Mayhew's unindicted co-conspiracies and unnamed sources. I’ll tell you what. I’d like some avant pomo poet to criticize (constructively of course, or is that deconstructively) an avant pomo poem’s shortcomings (and not mine, that is). Just once.

Maybe then I could begin to tell the difference myself.