a brief essay on poets

owed seven


some people spend their lives trying to be someone.

some people spend their lives trying to be no one.

some people fuck around looking at life with a squint.

these last ones can be very sexy.

but these people are terrible albatrosses.

terribly, sexy albatrosses.

if i started a poetry magazine again I would call it terrible sexy albatross.

i would make up rejection notices that said: "you have been greatly misunderstood by terrible sexy albatross, and now have a gravamen."

or i would send cryptic rejection notices like "mark chagall was a pussy."

even though this would have nothing whatsoever to do with the person being rejected, because they are a poet they would take this with the greatest umbrage possible and go around muttering "what an asshole" for days, or possibly weeks or years.