Wednesday, June 6, 2012


Some poets feel like parasitical mushrooms made of hallucinogens or poison, dependent on your point of view. They can pop up anywhere at any time in their black berets and avant-garde soldier uniforms, blood dripping from each of their punctuation marks, raping, killing, cooking and eating clueless [but not innocent] business majors who appear in their comp class because it’s a requirement, not just the cannibalism but the course itself. This requirement’s like Paula Deen taking Anthony Bourdain up her overextended arse. It’s all part of the program. So we must excuse them. Like Second Lieutenant William Calley and sergeants Wuterich and Bales, and the late great Gordon Kahl, we’re all just living out our missions the best we can. And don’t forget, it’s not easy being an avant-garde poet warrior in a financial world where everyone ignores you.

Remember, ambitious people have mothers who love them, too.

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