Fuck it. I'd rather be illegitimate. Some sort of bastard child of old world handmade books and new world internet. I'm going to do what makes me happy. I'm going to split the difference. I'm going to stop banging on doors where I know I'll never be welcome. I'm not going to always write with that potential future editor in mind who thinks everything I write is just wrong, wrong, wrong. That I'm not hip or post-modern enough to play with the cool kids. I'm going to write poems the way I want to write instead of poems I think the way everyone wants me to write. I'm going to stop obsessing. I'm going to stop wanting things from poetry, and perhaps it will be a much kinder, gentler beast when it comes to putting it down on the page. I was content once, and not nearly so muddled, before I started paying attention to certain things, the games and manevers, before coming back to school. I want to be there again.
See where way to much caffeine and too little sleep will get you.
