Last night was my last-ever poetry workshop. Thank Goddess it's finally over. I can't fucking handle any more avant garde whining, I can't handle the long silences of neurotic poets. Just as I've sworn myself to hating fragments as a vehicle for poetry, so too was I almost tempted to turn away from poetry all together. If these are the future professionals of poetry, I am as tired of them as I was of senior Army officers. The avant garde wonders why they don't ahve greater recognition?

It's because American tastes are content-driven. If you want to set up an alternate poetry power structure, then go ahead and do so. Christ, if I've gotta hear about a "poet's role" or the ethics of writing one more time, I'm gonna shit myself. I was tempted to turn away from poetry and instead, become a pure fiction writer. A new Thomas Pynchon (started reading Gravity's Rainbow, what an amazing book! That man can use language! I am reminded of what a slug I am compared to him. Ah.)! Theory doesn't put fish on the table, fish puts poetry on the table.

But I won't turn away from poetry. I can't. I might as well chop off my right foot, but I sure as hell won't be writing anything any time soon. Time to read and absorb and, for the first time in too long, read for pleasure. Again. Ah, sweet, blissful reading for pleasure.

Let's see what Europe and the Clarion reunion do for me.

No more poetry theory. I'm not a theorist, I'm a poet (see I'm already coming around!). At least for today I am. RRRRRRRR I feel so restless. I need a drink and the company of fiction writers.


WHO WILL BUY MY RAGS AND WEEDS?