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A Brief Guide to American Poetry
by William Glenn
The doorknob is not a part of the floorshow.
The floorshow, while still engaged in a peripheral attempt at
cultural revolution, has been downgraded to a niche market.
There is now a cable channel selling facsimiles
of the first-edition ice box.
If you visit the web site,
you can make the virtual poet recite in Yiddish
or set herself on fire in the lobby of corporate headquarters.
The beaches are nice, but sewage is a problem
after heavy rain.
Members of the Academy have installed an interactive
guillotine for those who want to ask questions.
When you enter the Hall of Mirrors, please remember
to extinguish your signal flares.
Post-war poets can be divided into two camps:
the horseradish-eaters and the smoke detectors.
Class distinction is muted, inasmuch as “class”
as a concept has been transformed into
a porcelain poodle.
Cultural politics play an increasingly important role,
generally that of the sexy bureaucrat in the musical version
of No Exit.
Sexual orientation is often confused and frequently
alone on a Saturday night.
There has been discussion among the thesis committee
about which war is actually being referred to
in the term “post-war.”
The doorknobs are largely symbolic.
The organic zeitgeist you left rotting in the shoebox
has been analyzed and deleted.
Women outnumber men in most areas,
except, of course, in upper management.
If you don’t know the secret handshake, don’t worry.
They weren’t going to let you into the club anyway.
Many pre-war poets, once full of vim and vigor,
have vanished from the post-war catalogue.
The proletariat giraffe-handler is no longer an accurate
guide for trope distribution.
The flag has been surgically sewn into your ass,
so make the best of it when choosing a theme
for your new work.
FYI: The rain is no longer fashionable.
Heroin abuse still elicits a few fervent nods at open mics,
but alienation has been dropped from the List
of Recommended Subject Matter.
Suggested alternatives include: yoga, cats, free
market democracy, and liberal angst at being rejected
by the jocks in charge of the dance committee.
Brechtian tendencies can be treated easily at any writers’ workshop.
Translations of foreign poetry have steadily decreased
since the President sprayed jism on the hired-help’s dress.
This is offset by the growing number of dissertations
on the post-modern significance of
Madonna’s marketing techniques.
Suicide is still an option, though it’s lost
some of its luster after the Sylvia Plath movie.
The drugs are helping for the most part, but I keep seeing
the horse go up in flames. On bad nights, he sings
a little lullaby while his eyeballs melt.
Be careful reading Robinson Jeffers or Gregory Corso
on the subway. The doorknob in your handbag may explode.