That's it: I'm tearing my manuscript Vatted Brain into shreds.

One of the problems with poetry is the word poetry.

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What's good for the goose wriggles under the bad screaming. Serif on the page, blinking all told kick me.

I'm amplifying my low voltage.

It stopped evolving and started mutating.

Banes say: Rename School of Quietude School of Frankie Avalon.

Here to thee wolf, spare my sheep;
Here to thee fox, spare my lambs;
Here to thee eagle, spare my goats;
Here to thee raven, spare my kids;
Here to thee marten, spare my fowls;
Here to thee harrier, spare my chickens.

I've accepted a commission from the Omnicon Group to devise a six-week initiation program for avant-garde and experimental poetry (AGEP).

I had some poetry, and I put it in my hair.

I am against poetry.

Boredom remains high, but Charles Simic is younger than Donald Hall.

Whoop di diddley.

Clutter!

Really, I don't know why more normal people—just a few—don't read poetry.

This makes poetry steadfastly boring.

I haven't been posting here, because I'm so bored.

Tedious.