(Yes, I left the room quietly rather than listen to his detailed fantasy regarding the slow and sadistic knifing of his father — all in the name of “poetry.” So sue me.)
*****
If the price for staying here
Was to countenance deceit,
Of clandestine usury
Have the dubious receipt
If disrespect and denigration
Would have been my daily lot —
Reexamine me the value
Of what regret I ought!
Two thousand works of pristine value
Classed beneath those of a clown
Fond of using poetry
To bring his audiences down
To primitive instinct
Violence and fear
The kind of stories we thought went
Out with the pioneers —
What am I really losing?
Surely nothing that I want
I hie me hence with happy heart
And lifting feet — Avaunt!
*****
The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:https://www.gofundme.com/are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
