Dear Dispatches—

This proverb spouting, twangy-phrase dropping master of sly lamentation has got me madder’n a naked beekeeper’s daughter at the heights of injustice in the poetry world.  He should know that I also have been excluded from Best American Poetry,  brazenly, although I have heard they are contemplating a special edition only for recently naturalized poets of European extraction.  Which again, would exclude me as I am a mestizo and I don’t really want to get into the details.

This citizen surely has got his pecker in a vise.  I say that as long his pickle is getting dilled regularly, as he claims, things could be worse.  It is good that his friends are dead, so that he comes ever closer to being the most salient among his peers.  Poets have short memories, which is why they write in a short form, and so among his kind, among the living, soon few will remember anyone besides Galway Kinell and Audre Lord.

Then again, this poet’s half-forgotten mss., over the centuries, may get rediscovered, and he could become the next Rumi, decorating many coffee mugs and framed on the walls of numerous teenage girls.  So he should not be disheartened.  As my Uncle Parker from my native Kentucky used to tell me, when we was both staring down the barrel of a rifle at a frightened doe, son, you have to take the long view, ’cause that’s the only view they is.