All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem
written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity
unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate
plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests
like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because
they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work
was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence
while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them
and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon
state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were
the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.
