You are gonna meet all kinds
of people who will tell you
your words are
not as good or
not as worth mention
as the words they say are
better but the truth is
most of them
have big drinking noses
not big writers eyes
and the truth is
they will gather dust with
chapbooks nobody will ever read
and they will piss off more students
then they will help but the most important
thing you will learn from them is that
you can overcome the urge
to remind them their personality
is drift wood
and not even the cool kind
that artists can fashion
something beautiful from,
just gnarly clenched up shit
not even their close friends
really thinks any excuse can
You will also
meet some amazing and
helpful and inspiring ones,
and you will remember them by the
books they developed to show you that
you were not some extraterrestrial to greatness,
and they will always, pound for pound,
outweigh the bitter ones who should
be locked away and kept from the
hands that scrawl on walls the demands
of a new tongue-generation.
They are the ones you need to
worry about impressing,
because they are the people
who teach you the importance
of only writing for yourself.
So let the drift wood
drape its ageing ideal
on the beach
of someone weak enough
in character to actual give a shit.
You have the Gregory Corso gift.
You will rip what little advice can be gleaned from them,
and shave their existence from your margins, otherwise.
If greatness was something that could be mapped
by washed up never-were much’s,
then they would’ve struck the iron,
they would’ve hit the horse
between its eye in their own time,
not still be repeating the wrote requests of
“don’t write like this,”
“this is not how it is done” or
“I hate vampire stories”.
Whatever it is they tell you.
Keep this in mind.
A teacher is only as great as their weakest pupil.