If it can’t be done well ’twere best left undone
Charge number 1 is it’s pretentious
And O To see oursels as others see us
Because I don’t see the pretentiousness
And would that it ’twere so simple
But you see the pretentiousness of Laurentz
Is to say both the it and the ‘t
Whereas my ’twere merely anachronizes
An affectation I admit
But not pretense to an excellence of which I fall short
But precisely since I don’t see it
And since I fall manifestly short of excellence
I cop a guilty plea to the first charge

And then I sin in envy
Which really shouldn’t stand as a second charge
But for the fact that I have confessed it publicly
Indulging thereby in the sickly confessional mode
Which will constitute the third charge
But that’s getting ahead of ourselves
But oh for Whitman’s self-confidence
Oh for Dickinson’s precision
Oh for Wilde’s intelligence
And the slope of envy slips right down to theft outright
And since I have once again blurted the truth
I cannot deny the charge of invidious emulation

The third is a charge of aggravated narcissism
For having gone all in on self-expression the accused has
That is I have
Made the choice to float his vices publicly
But choice is such a loaded word
And self-expression could offer a social benefit
Since some feelings stand to reason and others do not
So that the poetry of self-expression
Might enable contemplation of the difference
But only if one’s own feeling joins
In the general sorrow or celebration
So mark me guilty of number 3

For the pronoun one see charge number 1

And in what sense are these typings
To be considered poems
Nearly devoid of imagery
Lacking meter or even the vestige of rhythm
Deficient in both invention and rhetorical flair
Since I have no answer
I am guilty of 4
The charge of technical incompetence

The fifth charge is the most grave
A failure meet humanity’s moral demands
Hacking away for hours
The moral equivalent of Tetris
Taking moderate pleasure
With not one word for the suffering millions
I have nothing to say
I hear their groans
And who gets to enjoy poems even the good ones
Who gets to cultivate an appreciation of the arts
How am I wrong here
How are you wrong Dear Critic
Subject matter matters
What are my sad little sorrows to speak of