The Poet

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The poet has at his fingers the World Wide Net, the universal encyclopedia of all things and counting.  I have a tough poem or get stuck on a name.  Presto I Google Old Hollywood Character Actors Forties and find Martin Balsam and even find out he’d been married thrice.  I get stuck with a need for “literal bullshit” and I hit on “never tell a lie when literal bullshit would do the trick.” I may use it or not.  I’m not hungry for ideas when I can steal form the encyclopedia.  I can find the most esoteric nonsense.  Obsessive folk have probably prospered.  One man sent me his opinion the state of the land from the Tea Party perspective.  I simply looked up Chomsky and inserted (any paragraph C wrote in any book article will do) that “socialism has been around since 1946” in reply to his notion that “BO will dress in a brown shirt.”  I never heard from him again.  I can incorporate so much information in poems, great data.  I can drop names, list famous artists, even act like a critic.  If I get stuck I steal Kermode’s shit.  He’s dead so won’t care.  Yes. I have my finger on the pulse of life!


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