I got a book of poems in the mail today.
I must have ordered it online one
night when I was drunk. It’s from a small
press nobody ever heard of in New York. I
opened it and began reading.
The first poem was seven pages long – seven pages! –
I skipped it after reading laboriously through
the first two. I skipped the next two poems
by the same writer – he talks too much and
I began reading each poem one after the
other, moving to the next after only reading
a stanza or two. Does anybody write poetry
that makes sense anymore?
Quickly I came to the last poem – apparently
they saved the best for last, and that ain’t sayin
much. It’s only redeeming value is it had the word
“fuck” in every stanza but two and it made sense.
When I finished I tossed the book on the coffee
table and thought “Into the fucking Salvation Army
pile for you.”
That last poem made an impression.