that critic whose name i won’t tell you until a little while later
says that he does not like this poem or that for the simple reason
that they are simple because he says that he likes things difficult
but let me tell you a story of being difficult about a poet who is shitting
one day or sleeping one night who tries a bit of auto-writing stuff or
shitting stuff like dada you know or surrealist whatever even a little bit
of translation here and there ancient and modern collaging you know
very fashionable so that what comes out is not a bit unlike a prose poetry drama essay
music pop song in style and derida foucault kristeva greer barthes marx freud jung nitzher
all put together so that nobody understands
and now the critic plunges into action rubbing his hands and smiling to himself gosh that
is the thing So difficult! like myself
i must do a good job about this and prove to the world how clever i am
then he starts making cards compiling bibliography taking notes reading reviews phoning
people and writing fragments dissecting the poem and himself so that they merge into
each other
but what is his name you ask
never mind his name for you can easily pick up one anywhere nowadays
if a car ran into a telephone post and that post must fall on one

then you say i wish the post fell on one
see if it is not too difficult