Dear Mr. Bradley,
Your name is very American sounding, like a Lee Harvey Oswald, distasteful but I’ll deal with it, coming from abroad as I do … to find persons protesting our praying in the mosques of DeKalb, Illinois, while I am here at AWP with you.
I do not like your language, and, as a poet, I do not like your Bumpers, or your American commas, and, as a driver, I do not like the noise of your cars, still as big as when my father heard about LA in the 50’s … when there were real Hollywood … stars … not poets, so look out … John … my shoulders are low and small and I’m kneeing the wired pedals while I’m driving towards the convention hall…..
Someone at this ground zero site – perhaps just what we need one more pot smoking Hiroshima poet – introduces you by saying:
“We here at The Poetry Wars hope everyone is having a great time at the AWP”
but I know that person does not mean it
I do not buy it
as he sounds just a bit American sarcastic to me
And it’s as if he wants me to hear something else.
Through his rhymes.
Well, he rhymes – “wars” and “whores” when he writes, as if wired:
“Stay tuned for more reports coming from the sordid hotel halls of the American Whorehouse of Poetry.”
Why does he rhyme these, and even suggest the great poetry whore house is “official,” like a White House, which makes the sanctity of that institution, suspect, like the AWP?
This is distasteful to me.
Because I assume he wants to couple them.
Is his intent to couple the warmongers with the whoremongers – that they go at it … like the evil-doers, in hotels, like boys and girls subject to blowback?
Why do you, why does he, hate people like me …?
My poetry faith is one of peace.
I am only a poet who will appear at AWP –
Do I dare have a poetry kiosk like a peach stand?
Am I a whore for that?
I chance not.
Then again, maybe I‘ll get lucky….
– Homar Hudson.