Monday, June 01, 2009

Eileen Myles hates poetry...and so do I. Well, at least what the wider public's imagination conjures when they care to think of of poetry. I hate being embarrassed, or even conscious, of people's reactions when I tell them I'm going to study poetry. I also hate having to talk to people about Maya Angelou. I hate Maya Angelou and am tired of working real hard to not make you feel ridiculous for liking Maya Angelou. And though I agree with most of Myles' post, I hate when people bite the hands feeding them. I hate the commercialization of the MFA, but I love that I'm getting one and so, anything I say towards that has no credibility. I respect Eileen Myles...think that she is the last great bastion of punk sensibility in poetry, but c'mon, you can't rail against literary journals and be associated with the only one sold in most B&N and thusly, the most recognized journal in our culture. That's like the rich guy telling you how to be a better Christian...

Anyway, I packed up all my books last night. Six boxes of nothing but poetry books. It was like the time I transferred all my cd's into those travel books and realized for the first time that I'd accumulated over 900 albums; storing them differently changes your perspective, and clues you in to just how mad you are about certain things.

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