Self-Aggrandizing Poetry Bullshit Sheriff and World's Greatest Living Poet Yiffes!! [jim behrle at gmail dot com]

If one set out each day to please a fickle crowd of fellow bloggers with their blog, one might waver with the tossing of the ocean built by crybabies. The Satires are not a Dream. Your self-importance is a bird in the mouth of another bird that has flown inside a bazooka and is waiting to be released, spectacularly, into the world. The end result, the poetry community tells you, is that what you're up to isn't so experimental, isn't that coherent and isn't all that interesting. But you can take it: you're a poet, used to the shrugs of millions. That other poets are not so smart enough to figure out what you're up to, double shrug. Having closed the blogs of many lesser poets, one might feel success & love is all around us. The closing of poetry blogs is a distinctly honorable public service. Reminding poets that they're poets is a good Duty, as opposed to encouraging them to be Egozombies barreling down the boulevard--people who encourage people to *get* X so they will _feel_ Y? Abjectly criminal. The blogs bore you, too. But you're lazy and scared to buck stuff. It is not a crime to be lazy or scared. Their bloggy superimportance can be melted like Velveeta, it can travel down into the stormdrain. No one wants to see another close up of you, pretending to smile. It's bad enough to be photographed. It's another to have to appear to enjoy it. Which is a way of saying, fine, egomonster. Fine. You take into your mouth all the things you think will appease it. When you are left unappeased, what does that say about you. These are happy times and you were the one that was allegedly healthy, adult and happy all the time. So why aren't you happy or appeased? Some people took The Satires in stride. Some people know how to let loose a laugh or two. This is Sociopathy 101 over _here_. The ones who judge you, expect more of you, push you. Howcome everyone else is so satisfied with who they are? Definitely not, here. Corn is crushed and turned into taco shells. The sun becomes an irritation to the skin. Meanwhile you are the you they Allow you to be. And if you get too cute, pop. The world needs more poets and less of everything else. The world eats poets. And poops out poets' tears.

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