Notes

Poets with jobs, MFAs, no jobs, some “job,” infatuations on what “a job even is,” some money, no money, and nothing to say or too much, no big words, with diminutive and inconsequential and superfluously large ones, with comma splicing addictions, line break ignorance, crippling unconscious Victorian influence, confessing feminist-laced words, rewriting Pearl Jam lyrics about ex-girlfriends, wishing they could have a bad breakup, or poets with kittens, wives, husbands, mortgages, good things and good poems about them too, bad things but good poems, or bad things and bad poems, with plans to get an MFA, plans but “not gonna,” plans but definitely should not, poets with a pretentious aversion to rhyming, an ignorant enslavement to rhyme, and-those that-can’t attempt—but iamb, those with no meter, the ones that should rather try journaling, or just talk to someone about their problems, or actually try to get a job, or probably quit the job, or write more, or think more about what they write, or should write less to say more, those with “infatuations” of “endless” “infinities” for “sobbing” about “absolutely meaningless nothings” under “the moon and the stars.” 

We pray for you. At least you’re trying.

- W.B.