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my poem looks at me and says,
"please just kill me.  put me out of my misery. you've been writing the same fucking shit for years and haven't learned your lesson.  your poetry has no plot, no point, no direction.  just a collection of nonlinear with the occasional clever line or new word.  you're giving me a headache.  there should be a law against using the alphabet that way.  but you.  you've broken all the rules, and not in a good way.  you rationalize it as stream of consciousness.  oh there's the thought.  oh there it's gone.  i give up.  i can't follow where your mind is going.  you do have the occasional clever new word, but so what!  no follow through.  if you can't follow it, what do you expect me to do?  please just start over.  give attention. a sleeveless mind is an empty body?  really?  what the fuck.  how did that get in there?  streaming.  oh yeah.  good for music but not for me.  start over.  you really need to..."

denis streeter    11/21/18