"Okay, this is it. This is the thing. You don't understand what
the world wants. They don't want those old fashioned
moon-spoon-June shit exercises you pull up from under the rocks of
literary history. Let that shit lay there. Even mentally disabled
people can be taught to speak in rhyme and rhythm―it's
not so hard. Write the real fucking stuff that everyone can
understand..."
He went on and on, the famous―well,
the locally well known poet who wrote crap about fucking and
drumming and Jack Kerouac.
I was supposed to sit there and take it. Take it from him. He
wrote the word "VAGINA" on the side of a tampon and that was a
poem.
I wrote:
"So very small and private is our woe
A smooth stone slipped unseen into the sea
To sit amid the muck and undertow
With every other slight and sunken thing."
He said nobody reads that crap.
I said well somebody just did, fucker.
