Only I decide

Who the poets are

For me, the ones

I consider to be


Worth reading,

And I try to see

The value, the art

In everything


I read but refuse

To torment

The countable hours

I have left trying


To appreciate those

So-called lines of

Poetry posing and

Parading nada for me.


And there you have it,

I’m not a truly

Democratic connoisseur

Of the arts. My tastes


Are as selfish as

A Wall Street Republican’s.

I demand my poetic

Consumption entertains


The wounded heart

Or funny bone—

That it be witty,

Wryly confessional,


Arrogantly foolish

Or overly dramatic,

Maybe even opportunistic . . .

Really it can be


Whatever it wants of me

As long as it admits

It has no answers,

That it doesn’t know shit.


I just want to believe

I know my poet,

That he or she

Has been through it


With me and wept

Alone in honor

Of my loneliness.

I want a clown-


Genius who steals

Pages from my books,

Another joker

Who just wants to stop


My world to watch

His betrayals or her pleas

For the whales, the trees,

Funerals or bees.


It’s not that I can’t lie

(I’m as good as the next

Guy when I feel the need)

But to fain interest


In those verses that

Have set off my alarms,

And sent me groping for

The nearest exit to hurl . . .


That falsity is too bitter

A slug of hypocrisy.

I’d rather admit to

Voting for Reagan.


So don’t ask. Let me

Tell you who I read.

I’ll only name the names

I wish for me.

This entry was posted in Updates. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to FOR ME

  1. Hailey says:

    This is amazing!

  2. Nita Sweezey says:

    Pretty nice post. I just stumbled upon your blog and wanted to say that I have truly loved surfing around your blog posts. In any case I will be subscribing for your feed and I hope you write once more very soon!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.