American Poetry acccording to a few hundred students at UNCG:

Most students in four different classes had friends who wrote poetry and read at coffee shops. Quite a few thought a poet was polite, agreeable. A nice dinner guest. Only a few thought of a poet as crazy and dangerous (we were discussing the Irish bard and Yeats Hanrahan). Most thought American poets are all songwriters/rappers.

Audience was a big harping during my four years of grad school. My mentor Bruce Beasley was not concerned about a huge audience. A small intense audience is better than millions of adoring fans who only see the surface? Even if that intense audience consists mostly of other poets?

I am happy with an audience. Should I be uncomfortable with an audience mostly of peers?

Not sure. But I’ve got to sneeze.

It’s got to be true it’s got to be true:

the writing itself is central.

Audience, recognition second.

My cat has a feather and treats it like a baby.

Sometimes I want to rip the alphabet a new one. Sometimes the alpha scares me more than the omega.

Sometimes the alphabet makes me want to hide my hat in the broom closet.

Tired of cleaning up after the alphabet.

A mess here. A mess there. Everywhere a mess mess.

Is there life after the alphabet?

is there life after chocolate?

One Reply to “”

  1. Anonymous says:

    Who are you my dear friend?
    I find your text unusual.


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