by mickharris

another list of true (to me) things:


poets are assholes, brutal and horrible and self-absorbed and pretentious and egocentric and gorgeous

at the same time

this does not mean that i want to hang out with most of them



i was at a party at AWP during which a famous poet pointed to another famous poet and said

you should hit on her, look at how old she is, isn’t she fabulous

go grey, go cougar

she looks like fucking stevie nicks, i whispered

we giggled, conspiratorial

friends by association

we’d met twice before in social groups

dragged along by the other drunk famous poets to a swank gathering

with an alleged free bar

(the escalators gave us some trouble but were ultimately amusing)

the woman in question was older, short, attractive to many i am sure

known, though

i am sure i was the only one there who was not


and today i find her featured on a prestigious poetry blog

and i cannot help but guttural clench and laugh the hysteria

strung out on too much coffee

swallowing the shame there

of always judging people

(but i don’t like her poetry, so that makes it all okay)

and she was pretty annoying at that party

i have to say


though the fat Southie piece of shit poet

dragging the drunk girl out of the coat check and down the hall

ostensibly to fuck (he’s married, my poet escort told me, and horrible)

was far more disturbing

i took a few steps down the tile, watching her wave her arms and laugh

and i still regret not going after her

but it’s not cool to make a scene

especially not when you have no publications

and no tenure

career suicide


ugly things often make my art


another note as to what kind of writer am i – i am invested in the business of admitting, the process of making known all the curling and disgusting things that i think and feel, because i sense i’m not alone in them, and that’s all that’s floating to the surface right now in terms of content.  such as it is.

the feels.

is there such a thing as a poetics of admission?  i think that there should be.  it strikes just the right pretentious note that warms me a little, and it sounds assholeish enough so i can fit in with the rest of the poets.

or maybe it’s terrible, i don’t know

it happens to be true, which is a plus


but poets are assholes, yes, and when i say that i mean too that they are published and well-known and they do the work

those assholes

i’m jealous

that’s what it all comes to – jealousy, and yearning