How To Write Poetry

The other day, in a store of books,
there was one that purported to show
just how I could improve my poetry.
it suggested i not spent to much time
on my opening line,
though i’m not sure why, because i don’t.
he suggested reversing things
and traversing things
and once there was a mention,
of all the gall, of an outline.
I thought for sure I was going to die.
Then it occurred to me
that he just might be
one of those fucking editors,
worthless as they are and still drawing a paycheck,
that determines the content of an art –
imagine that! A loathsome ant looking over the shoulder
of Picasso or Monet, suggesting less blue or more definition!
what a racket of tone deaf musicians
-they should start a union of stupidity in expressions-
but enough about them – and their ilk,
it’s this odd book of poetry improvement
that concerns me – I won’t have a poetry committee
that determines the confines of my displays,
“That would have been great, if only he’d used a semi-colon;”
.
Don’t they know there are real people
that make the most unreal poetry
because they doubted the spirit that started it all –
all those words they jotted down because they had to –
and listened to this revolting piece of Inteligencia doctrine
where the heart is ignored and the soul is pissed upon.
then it occured to me the waste
that all these worthless words would make,
on thousands of trees and pretty ink
there would not be real poetry printed
instead of unoriginal ideas imprinted.
Oh well, that’s what we get
for buying into the gimmicks of trade
where we love them more than us:
market success is originality’s failure.