I Am Not In The Cult Of Genius

Note: This was written while I was in a very hostile mood, I might not really believe all of this here in the morning (Update: I don't). Also, I borrowed heavily from Ray Wylie Hubbard's version of This Mornin' I Am Born Again.

I despise drama. The sick whining and pathetic grind of a thousand little and insignificant monkeys with their little boxes of music digs into the bullshit of all the goddamn drama.

I've been pounding the beers pretty heavy. I have a swath of modernism to sift through and find at least something worth keeping. I hate poetry (outside of a few). I hate it with every fiber of my being. If you wish to communicate, form sentences, form statements, form a point. Communicate something. Don't tell me how you feel, tell me what you think. Don't wallow in your condition, improve it.

Why the tirade on poetry? Long story, but suffice it to say I have been drug through the mire of a bunch of goddamn whiners from the turn of the century. Please God, never let me be one of those.

Perhaps the meanest thing I can say is the truest. I hate them because I have known them all. Here, at the turn of this century, we have another grasping group of pretenders who know how to complain, but don't know how to do a damn thing. Give me all your drama, I'll ingest it and secrete sweaty work. Tell me your problems and I will find solutions. I have been born again complete. I stood up above my troubles and stand on my own feet.

Poetry, at least the poets that are not Noyes and such, annoy me. Find your feet, stand and be counted for something more than your supposed genius. Let your past be dead and gone. I've sat here blistering my brain with all this goddamn ramble for a grade, and because I hope soon this modernist crap will go away. Thank God.

I hope never to sit in my room complaining, whining about life with nos solution when I could be outside. I could be running. I could be fixing. I could be changing, out in the sun with a young sun. I could work outside, muscles working while I breathe like a sledge-hammer man, I would feel the sun upon me and its rays crawling in my skin. I could drink the blood of Jesus and old John Henry in. Fix yourself.

There is no heaven in the land of drama. The pearly gates lead nowhere. They stand at the vestibule of a land peopled by those too weak to believe in hell. Poetry is a process that is not a solution to a problem that does not exist.

That's why I hate it.