ask mr. poet

[constantine]

dear 30,000 leagues under the poet's dress,

we're not talking cream of wheat; we're talking assberry crunch. when consuming assberry - i say skim is the way to go.

signed electronically,

mr. poet

[constantine]

dear mr. poet,

when are you going to tell those piddling bastards where to get off? we all know you want to - so why don't you? you know they have it coming - so give it to them - right in the labonza!

signed,

dukey

[constantine]

dear dukey,

is it that obvious, dukey? normally, as well you know, i'm a pretty mild-mannered sort of guy. rarely do i lose my temper, dukey. but the appalling lack of cyber-etiquette on these poetry boards is starting to piss me the fuck off. people come out of nowhere and start posting poems like they're doing us some kind of big ass favor. then, maybe, they respond to someone's work, but only the particular work of particular poets who have commented on their shit first. to that i say - screw you! i'd sooner burn in hell then suck up to some blowhard idiot who just blew in from kansas like the goddam queen of england.  i don't care if it's omar fucking khayam. homer could post the iliad here, but until he acts with some humility he can just take a walk around the acropolis for a few fucking laps and cool his fucking jets. there's a principle involved here, dukey - a goddam principle. it's called community - communication - a commune of equals. even if they aren't equals, they have to act equal. pay the dues of respect. you hear me, dukey? do i make myself clear? i used to be an idiot - commenting on everyone's work - giving encouragement and sage advice (as only mr. poet can) - and what did it get me? nothing! absolutely nothing!!! a karma point, here and there, but it's not real karma - so what the hell is that!??! when i die, i'm not coming back - karma points or not. so it ain't karma, dukey - it ain't nothing remotely related to karma. i don't know what the hell it is, but it isn't karma! i got a bagel today, dukey - an onion bagel with cream cheese. they put a ton of cream cheese on it - like they were being magnanimous or something! so i take a fucking bite and cream cheese squirts all over the place! a big glob on my black slacks - right on the crotch! i mean what the fuck, dukey?! how can anyone maintain their sanity with shit like that happening on a daily basis? so i go back to tell them where to get off - and they call the cops on my ass - on my ass! on mr. poet's ass!! like i was some kind of goddam nut for chrissake!!!

signed,

mr. poet

[constantine]

dear mr. poet,

forgive me, mr. poet, but don't you think you are being a tad unreasonable in your vociferous denunciations? perhaps el nino is wearing you down - it's quite understandable, what with the heat and the humidity. i'm sure they mean well, and generous portions of cream cheese are not to be sneezed at.

signed,

monsieur neufchatel

[constantine]

dear monsieur neufchatel,

sneezing? did i say anything about sneezing? you goofy bastard, i said nothing about sneezing so why bring it up?

signed,

mr. poet

[BardmasterUB05]

Dear Mr. Poet,
After all the heat recently, I can see your dukey point. It's unbearable, and, on another note, the damn crimes here have turned to the unimaginable. Poetry in _____? Where's the poetry with a killing field right in our own backyard? We need to clean this town up, make it saintly, cripes! If just for a few years. I've read Dante, and believe we've entered a sort of underworld Olympics, a new horror even worse each day. How can we be poets with such infestation, killing the likes no mystery writer could ever dream up? It dulls our senses, maybe this is why (poets?) have lost their ability to critique, or just comment. Say anything! Say it's fucking wrong! Shout out, this is where our revolts should start. They begin at home, near the pile of blood at our feet. Say...he left a pubic hair in the third stanza of a sonnet! That should work.

sincerely,
30000 Leagues Under

[Nazz]

dear mr. poet,

I could really go for a triple cheeseburger with extra cheese and onions right now, and maybe double fries with a side of whiskey.  Into the health food, yer only shot at writing a great American Zen road thing... grease and more grease, ah the grease. yabby yabby yabby.

signed,

Jack "grease" Monke   

[constantine]

dear jack "grease" monke,

i want a triple cheeseburger with extra cheeseburger.

signed,

mr. poet

[constantine]

dear 30,000 leagues beneath my brain,

it's a dukey wonderland! time to get physical - physical. this ain't xanadu with tibetan monks ands birds of paradise floating around! this is poetry in crabtown - with all that it implies. i want the mustard, the devil, the claws of every damn crustacean i can find. i want poetry written in old bay by oyster poets. not this "i love the downtrodden as long as they don't live nextdoor" crapolla (or is it crappola - i can't ever get that straight!) or that refried enya-wiccan mumbo jumbo written during the age of aquarius! perhaps i've said too much... like hell i've said too much! i haven't even started yet!!

signed,

mr. poet

[constantine]

...the views and opinions of mr. poet do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of mr. poet...

[Nazz]

dear mr. poet,

if not us, when?  if not now, who?

signed,

unemployed speechwriter

[constantine]

dear unemployed speechwriter,

unusual syntax you've got there - maybe that has something to do with your unemployment. could be, anyway.

signed, mr. poet

[constantine]

dear mr. poet,

i just returned from a trip to china and was surprised at your popularity among the chinese people. it seemed like every time i turned a corner there was a poster for mr. poet this or mr. poet that. plastic bracelets that say: "what would mr. poet do?"  are being sold at kiosks all over beijing!!  how do you account for the religious awe and esteem with which the chinese people hold you in their hearts, minds, and souls?

signed,

slip mahoney

[Nazz]

dear mr. poet,

are you big in japan too?  (who isn't?)

signed,

big western dude

[constantine]

dear best western dude,

between emmanuel lewis and mr. poet, the japanese have extended their heathen pantheon from its barbaric shinto origins into the realm of the muse. you ought to open up a hotel there - if you haven't already. such a diminutive species - you can really pack em in.

signed,

mr. poet