now the Encyclopedia Britannica is dead
Rubinstein wants to replace it with the American poem.
my MFA, lost in his citation page
which masquerades as poetics,
is my entry fee,
on a train to nowhere
where I ride with other carefree poets
printed letters on our minds,
no one asking,
can poets be carefree?
should they be?
For what it's worth,
I just want a seat at the table,
however meager the pickings,
I've nothing of importance to say,
I know the original titles,
I can recite them.
they're in other languages,
meant to be typed in italics,
let me help lessen the breadth of the pome,
I promise to keep it in those outmoded halls,
new yorker, harpers, nation, balls balls balls
what's in a- what's in a- name?
it's a publisher's game.
the best we have to offer is our brevity,
so take it, our metaphor too, sacrifice it,
for this new contemporary age, best of 2015,
Don't feel what you write, don't write what you feel,
and for god's sake if you do spell it out with too many damn words