nobody reads these things anyway

so why read anything? decision to avoid first person, avoid line breaks. poetry isn't poetry. it's playing the harp in an underground subway platform. who plays the harp underground? why do this? because t.s. eliot wrote some incandescent lines that stick to one's mind. is that reason enough? harriet davidson said in this country we don't burn our poets, we just starve them to death. not to be negative or nothin, but... i am now avoiding the first decision, but not the second. i had a three-word poem but didn't write it down, on purpose, thinking it was so good i could never forget it. also a form of rebellion against one purpose of poetry, the mot juste. i'm sick to death of being good at things. why can't we accept failure, embrace it, fuck it. why must goodness tyrannize our consciousness. when we barely pay attention to it anyway. it's merely salvageable. but failures haunt my mind, l'esprit de l'escalier haunts our imaginings. let's fuck up our lives or at least embrace their fucked-up-ness. we ain't getting tenure anyway. (are we?)