I'll give you this and nothing more. I don't do workshop
Precious. Unmoored images kindle my rage. Absence
Of narrative drives me away. I don't care very much about
Your ethnicity, your sexuality, unless you transport me
Somewhere, after which, you bring me home. Hew to
Convention. Be a shit poet, and, doing so, drag down
An art no one loves. I will write for the people you've
Driven away, hoping they hear me, hoping that your sort
Runs out of pixels and paper, and critics more clueless
Than babies in cribs, and plot and coherence come back
Into fashion. I want that from poetry, fool that I am,
I can't countenance anything more.