It’s
like they have poetry in the back of a van with its mouth duct taped shut and
its legs, arms, consonants and vowels bound.
They
drive all over Ohio, the US and the world spreading their disingenuous venom
and there is no antidote to the stupidity these hacks are bringing to this
Jonestown party.
Art
should never be about a cult of personality and if you don’t leave your ego at
the door then I’m not interested in the dish you’ve brought to our poetry
potluck extravaganza.
You
keep using the word powerhouse like if you say it enough a mangy stuffed duck
will drop from the ceiling and Groucho will let you stroke his greasepaint
mustache before his brothers come to carry him home.
It’s
not like that Josh, the publishing and the winning as you put it because
without quality work all that’s left are smokestacks blowing their tops as we
take yet another bite out of this poisoned apple.
I’m
not immune to wishing I was a part of this card carrying club of zombies and poet
laureates though truth be told I’ve always been more fascinated in infamy as A Confederacy of Dunces channels our
inner-assassins and the art we create not only saves us, but as well
immortalizes us in anonymity.
Poetry
must be set free otherwise it becomes just another award placed on the mantle
like a holiday card from a family of serial killers you’ve been dodging your
entire life of hits and near misses.
To
be validated by a den of vipers only makes one a part of the problem as a death
by a thousand cuts lands you smackdab in a deforested forest where no one makes
the grade and everyone just wishes for this exercise in futility to finally be
over.
Art’s
the only thing that has ever had me feeling comfortable in my own skin and I
will fight for the right to create no matter the cost as we’re taken down a peg
or two by a foghorn blowing out its own brains on this our day of both death and
rebirth.
Charles Cicirella
4/27/20
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