Of course, love comes frequently, fervently, tragically, to a poet. So the real question lies in the ability to find pristine love, and this is the true poet.

The pernicious glutting of writing poetry out of mere amusement, (that everyone seemingly has as an instrument of being a pure romantic out of the sake of boredom), does not only lack the humble responsibility for reading poetry in itself, but the pains that comes with being a poet: perpetual love. With the comforts of the modern day and anesthetic, zombie-like living of the monotonous routine — having the burdens of the emotions that char the weary soul of a true poet, and according to the article, the indigence that is attached to it — one cannot truly desire to be a poet. It is the pain to love that these “poets” lack when they write.

Oh! how pristine love is categorized into something untouchable in the today and probably the morrow in society; a poet does find love to burn fast in its intensity through his eyes, and this love burns out physically and emotionally in all it’s violence and vigor, but continues to live solely through the eloquent words of the paper. Society has made love impossible, unachievable, but still vomit poetry, therefor making it dispensable.

The sharp, heavy cupidity of a poet’s nature that enables him to write is one factual thing: it’s not something we’d like to bear.

The modern day poet is left, inevitably, to obscurity and in this, we have deprived him of the only thing he has.

I sense that for you, Bob, poetry amounts to either stuff or pornorgraphy, but I’m inclined to debate whether pornorgraphy (assuming that it is the highest level which poetry can reach) can really equate to the types of poetry I know. Admittedly my understanding of poetics is limited — far beneath your own subtle mind — and really, maybe I’m too in love with conjecture and “stuff” to really get it. But it seems to me that pornorgraphy is essentially limited, while being, paradoxically, limitless on the web: this is a problematical situation that, I aver, would not correspond to poetry. While you believe in a division of gradually etiolated powers — stuff and porn — I tend to think that poetry reconciles stuff and porn quite nicely and will even reduce them to fragments of a world infinitely more complex than the sum of these two. While you appear to find pornorgraphy a sacrosanct economy worthy of your precious time apart from parodying other people’s carefully thought out works, I have found it to be about as satisfying as eating a double cheeseburger at McDonald’s: at first with hopeless lust, afterwards with utter soul-destroying dejection. Poetry just doesn’t do this for me: it does more, much more, and it lasts centuries longer, is eons wider. Its orgasm — its eruption — holds forth severe authenticity, and the lustre of its body — its form, its curvature — is no different from that of a living human body: poetry is material, odor, tierra. I suggest you try it, rather that than through a screen; but if you still don’t get what the hell I mean, try reading Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Páramo.

(Judging by the professionalism of your parody, I wonder if you would be so kind as to forward some links to more of your work, you know, when you’re not stuck flexing the smallest muscle of your body? By the look of your email, it seems that your vocation is scouring the web for misconstrued pompous writings and setting them aright with your judicious editorials. Unfortunately, I could find no trace of your pamphlets elsewhere.)

I confess finally that the complex abstractions of pornorgraphy mystify me quite a bit and I’m not “read” enough to understand its intricacies. You clearly understand more about it than I do since you were able to infer it in my writing, somehow, probably through mystical techniques unknown to me. But then again, maybe my work doesn’t deserve the grander metaphysical label of being pornorgraphic because it is too much about boring unsensational meaningless stuff? Next time I finish writing a post, instead of kicking back with a glass of whiskey and watching the films of Walerian Borowczyk, I’ll try to humble myself and sit down to that catalogue of pornorgraphy you seem to favor so highly. Morgan le Fay was it?

Poems link people to people and stuff, and will one day be on a screen. This guy I know wrote something about it. More poetry is being written today because of the Internet and stuff. This guy Aplaugh calls this “the new math of poetry.”

Alpaugh thinks a lot about all this poetry being published and those “fancy” best of books, since they obviously only publish their friends and cousins. This sucks because there are some people out there who are totally great writers surrounded by other not so great writers and so they don’t get published by their “friends” and their “cousins.” And, we all know, in the history of writing the best writers didn’t have friends or cousins.

This upsets Aplaugh. But I ask, what about the “old math” of poetry, when “metrics” was spelled with a “k?” Back when it was about people and stuff but there wasn’t a link to Jenna Jameson’s “best of” catalogue, you know, the one her cousin did?

People still like stuff. Poetry is now written by the educated. Education can be walking around and eating dirt. Back in the day, people didn’t get paid to write no poems. So they ate dirt, and were educated.

Clearly, this wasn’t a great living or education, so poets got a little pissy, which was good. Starving was inspiring. If a poet is starving and still wants to write, he clearly has a good education. Aplaugh says the problem with poetry on the Internet is Jenna Jameson’s cousin’s catalogue. This is causing people to write bad, distracted poems not even about stuff.

My friend wrote a poem that I will now publish but I do not have any pornorgraphy:

(friends poem blah blah blah you’re the enemy not the publishing house)

The “impulse” my friend the editor of this website speaks of is the feeling after the eating of the dirt. The impulse is one that

(more poem down here)

“travels lightly along the latitudes“:

(and some more poem. What kind of friend interrupts someone’s freely published poem on the Internet not about stuff?)

To travel light along the latitudes: to eat a lot of dirt from a lot of places! Sorry I have to stop writing, there’s some Fay Regan porn calling my name.

End parody.