September 29, 2008
One of the worst disillusionments I’ve had in life was the discovery that the poetry competitions advertised in the comics section when I was a teenager were a big scam to make people buy the books their poems were “published” in. Innocently, I believed the world to be hungry for poetry, eager to scoop up the newest concentrated logos of its freshest generations. I find, instead, that the common language of poetry is essentially dead, that creative writing survives largely in individual vanity projects, and that the only way my poetry will ever matter to anyone is in respect to the amount of money I’m willing to part with for the illusion of an audience. If I were willing to work very hard at it, I might be able to scrounge up a career writing poetry for other people trying to do exactly the same thing.