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Why I Hate Poetry
Mr. Wantling could sure lay down a line.
Power, intensity, meaning, right to the brim.
Damn that's writing!
And Mr. Childish certainly followed in Mr. Celine's footsteps,
giving us his unique take in true form and fancy.
Ms. Addonizio cracked her wanton whip across our rosy red backsides,
filled with female angst and audacity.
And when Mr. Purdy wasn't being too obtuse and esoteric,
did some nice lay ups to the artful basket.
But oh my goodness—Mr. Turgenev!
The master draftsman of poetic free verse—KILLS me!
Damn straight and so many years before them all!
That fucker could fire at you with both barrels and leave a lasting impression.
Too bad Mr. Bukowski never mentioned him.
So I will.
Ivan you wild man you. Not as well known as your contemporaries,
but so what?
Fame is no arbiter of quality.
Yes, I know what you heard!
Aboard a ship once, Ivan thought it was going to sink and made
a hysterical ass of himself calling out for help.
Shit! Do any of us have a perfect record?
Not a chance cheesecake.
I could tell you times of my asinine displays. Really cringing shit.
So let's give the man a free pass and get on with the commemoration.
Besides poems, his short stories and novels were of no small moment.
Have you read Clara Militch?! NO?!!
I'm going to overlook that.
What the man could capture in his characters was mind blowing.
His hero Gogol.
And after that obit—EXILE!
With all this power in the line, this legacy of meaning behind us—why oh why—
do I see putrid words still being penned by the countless.
Pretty imagery all totaled together equaling sweet fuck all!
The bastards are still writing this shit.
I see it in the little mags.
EVERYWHERE.
I know most have not learned a damn thing.
Being civilized in print gets us nowhere.
Poetry is dying again.
Yes, Buk gave us a revival renaissance.
We need another.
Blast the sweet, careful, pablum out of existence.
Fuck them all and be damned—I hate poetry!