I say fuck the old poet reviewers…piss on the New Republic,
Publishers Weekly, the Southern Review, and the New Yorker, too.
What the hell do those MFA mother fucking assholes know
about the soul of the poet, the pain painted in the words
of the farmer writing a letter to the bank to stop a foreclosure?
The nights that farmer stays awake counting his oats thinking
of a name for a new calf, makes him a better poet than most.
So, again, I say, fuck those MFA reviewers of the neo-poets,
those Molding Fucking Antiquarian poseurs wouldn't know
a good poem if it bit them on their sour old know-it-all talk holes.
Those exploiters of the truth, the black man, the white, the red,
and all colors of women, too. I know all this but none of it enters
my mind when I write my poems, I have no stand other than that
I write about what I know, what is the truth; yes, you may think
I am fucked up with my non-rhyming words, my imagery, but
you see, I've always known that I was a poet; my father told me so.
Because I know what I know; and I've seen most of the truth up
close, and I've lived long enough to see the beauty of the poem.
And the truth has never known a better poet than we poets
who struggle every day to put to paper our pain, our shame
for mistakes long past, love lost in the high grass of the range
of our knowledge, our experience, our struggles, you know?
So, again, I say, fuck those MFA mother fucking assholes who have
never met people like us, we, the neo-poets of our own poetry.
That's us, folks, the community of neo-poets of Hello Poetry.