Tuesday

I have about a million things to say without any real will or un-will to say them.
I could list them for you like little fishy fish on a little series of fish hooks.
O, how I'm tired of metaphors and similes.
I am also tired of communicating and not communicating.
Somehow, I've been thinking about writing a review or two. I want to write a review in praise of Kent Johnson's Homage to the Last Avant-Garde and I also want to write a review that is critical of another very cool contemporary poet. I will not mention this poet's name because I probably won't write it and I'm a pussy, too.
I don't know why I'd want to praise someone or why I'd want to say negative things about someone else. Being human is heartbreaking.
One of the things I've noticed about being a poet and dealing with other poets is that the community (not the community is the best word, it's just a word) is fragile and explosive. Also, I've found that either I'm crazy and/or everyone else is crazy too. Depression runs amuck. Egos bob like bobbers.
I've made some friends in poetry but, mostly, I haven't. Most poets are really good people with good intentions, I think. I think that about most everybody. But I am full of lightening, people. i.e. I contain anxiety.
I do believe in being polite. So do some other people.
Anyway, my face is mostly blotted out. What am I to do? I'm not a gangster with gang signs, I'm not even a TV producer.