Yr another pussy Gallagher. Don't you have some watermelons to smash, or firehose to spray? rules of conduct will do for slate. or salon. or yr favorite lesbian democrat site. Not beat lit.
You think this is like about civility and appeasing the cafe-ahhtistes? Its not, puto. Its about like rage, and glory and not going gently into that not-so-good night, punk. Kerouac on a flatbed. Jack London in alaska. Conrad on a steamer. Dostoyevsky in prison.
Literature not merely for spinsters, or drama queens, haiku-weavers or Sylvia Plath basketcases. If it is, fuck the shit. Capichay?
This almost seems like parody. I mean, how could someone write this in earnest and not realize they sound like an ultra-precious 16-year-old dweeb who just discovered Allen Ginsberg and suddenly thinks of himself as a rebel? But I guess there are a lot of poets like this, who go from being 16 to 22 to 25 to 30 to 50 without maturing beyond the adolescent stage. And eventually they end up spending eight hours a day writing 700-word comments on poetry blogs. At least this one was entertaining.