The Anti-confessional, Confessional Poem
We all tidy up our rooms a bit before allowing in guests: a Lysol can for stale odors, a wet rag to dust a good bend of the back to pick up strewn papers, a drawer to stash those books and magazines that would embarrass us were strangers to know we really read such things, these are the necessities for our etiquette of hospitality. In our now tidy rooms we position in strategic places (solely for the sake of vanity) artifacts of mystery or praise: a jade Buddha, an original print from Soho, old awards and diplomas, are all acceptable, but beware overdoing it. Shall I now open the doors to the rooms of my mind? The words you're reading come from the compartments of my brain. I've tidied up. I've used my delete key to clear thoughts improvidently typed. Thoughts that all of you have, but would make you wince were I to echo them. Those ideas, those images that are best discussed only with close friends, or expensive psychotherapists, have all been safely tucked away. I've also followed all the rules of Strunk and White. I've even placed exotic nouns here and there to impress you with conjured up mysteries. I confess vanity, but am I a poet? Perhaps. If I am, then am I ergo a nonconformist? Hardly! I'm as conventional as a banker; I just follow a different set of rules.