Vanilla

Dear Mr Editor-In-Chief,

Maybe, just maybe,
There is a compulsion to your immorality,
A humanity in that chair even,
An earned diploma cellotaped to the wall.
A man making a buck by digesting another,
But dogs will eat dogs if the conditions are right.

Perhaps I know the wellspring of your agony Mr Editor-In-Chief,
By god, the things you are wont to abide.
I have killed many rotten poets myself,
I have failed to recall those vanilla writers,
And their saccharine letters,
As they boogied in the miry clay that is their vanilla talent.
No jive. little shame. No nothing.

They force down our gullets the very contagion
that killed their dogs and cats and plants.
“Your malady can be cured,”
you tell those unsolvable poets,
There is hope, I tell them too.
In fact, millions —
No, A billion poets before you have happened
till those stale nights came around,
When the rejection letters stopped,
When you truly did not know the day of the week,
Or the face of a soulmate.

For to live well
Indeed to write your way into the souls of men,
You must first pass away.
You must rid yourself of your own small mind,
Unearth your corpses,
Hunt down your limits,
Befriend your nemesis,
Dance in the rain,
Love madly,
Hate wildly,
Play dead.

Like white Christ, you must become that public vision,
The dog shit on their soles,
The bottle-green fly that met a hand fan,
The absolute nothings in their undead souls.

Oh, the things they will say when you sneeze up a book of powerful lies.
Lo, it is a goddamn NYT Bestseller.
Let’s sell online, soft and hards,
Let’s make a sequel,
Let’s wax gold,
Let’s shit on it.

Because you began thus:
It was a starry night,
The moon held a certain arrogance,
It was a fabulous morning,
The sun was hot as fuck.

And all that fabulous nonsense that you speak of in poetry.
But when this is done,
When the lights go silent,
All those relics,
All that vanity upon vanity
We will douse in paint thinner and set ablaze,
As we dance like war dogs on Broadway,
and chant and jump like the Masaai around an open fire.
Tomorrow, there will be another editor with coffee on teeth,
Another man with blood under fingernails,
In whose claws my destiny will reside,
The nights when I listened to a strange fat woman call me back from my fugue,
The nights I watched the rats feed on my toes,
The times I died for weeks on end,
The painful words I have cooked,
and chewed,
and vomited will be for nothing.
Alas writing is not for cowards,
That’s why you died the first time.

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