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Alter Egos - I Am Done Watching This

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Friday, October 20, 2006

Force Feeding Poetry - Too Much Meat and Potatoes

"Heard you were waiting on me, Dead Beat. Sorry Pollack just wouldn't give it up."

"That's okay Frank, Dead Beat's in no hurry."

"So what gives?"

"I though maybe you could tell me about your ideas - what lead you to your groundbreaking style?"

"Where are you taking me Dead Beat? This is New York. I’m not saying that I don’t have practically the most lofty ideas of anyone writing today, but what difference does that make? They’re just ideas. The only good thing about it is that when I get lofty enough I’ve stopped thinking and that’s when refreshment arrives. But how can you really care if anybody gets it, or gets what it means, or if it improves them. Improves them for what? for death? Why hurry them along? Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether eat or not. Forced feeding leads to excessive thinness (effete). Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them."

"Frankly speaking?"

"Groan, Dead Beat. Groan."

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