Diary of a Mad Editor

po*seur (poh-zur) n. A person who poses for affect or behaves affectedly.

You see them at every poetry reading, in every coffee house, bar and cafe. You see them on street corners and brooding in the pages of literary publications. You see them on MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, and every other social networking site. The poseur. A black beret or backward baseball cap. A cigarette or a toothpick sticking out of their mouth. That James Dean Too-Cool-for-School scowl on their face. So confident. They want you to believe they are artists and poets of the street. But many of them really grew up in a comfortable suburb. Some of them even went to a private school. Played soccer on the playground. Their perfect, white teeth tell you everything you need to know about them. They want you believe they are socially progressive. They talk about social justice, but ask them to name even one friend of theirs who’s black, brown, gay or grew up in the sticks with a family who shared two teeth between them. Ask them what they read and they will chant that no one writes anything “real” anymore, will quote Bukowski or one of the beats — will mention Micheline, although they’ve never actually read Micheline. What they consider real usually hovers in the vicinity of drinking, fighting and fucking. Drinking? At least when Bukowski wrote about being a drunk he didn’t take himself or the activity so seriously. Fighting? These assholes couldn’t kick their own ass and haven’t been in a real fight in their entire lives — would piss their pants if some a real-life badass got in their shit. Fucking? If they fuck like they write, guaranteed their significant other is balling the pizza boy, or the old dude next door, which generally reinforces their attitude that all women are “whores.”

For example, here’s a recent missive from our old nemesis, B.T. Manheim:

hey assbrain,

heard you got cancer. good news! fuck off and die already. and since you like my poetry so much (ha ha ha), thought i’d send you one to send you over the edge.

flushed away

another bitchwhore
left me

so i tripped thru
the room filled
w/ empty
beer
cans

and straight
to the john
where i took
a big horse
dump and
flushed

quite
satisfied

“send me over the edge”? B.T. your shit puts me to sleep. Seriously, get out of that rathole apartment you say you live in. Take a walk. Get some fresh air to that oxygen-deprived brain of yours. I’m sure even you must have a few brain cells left that can be spared with a little intervention.

Well, if you’ve read one poem by ole B.T., you’ve read them all. Personally, I’m over it. I’m tired of reading submissions from these guys. The Donnie Stricklands and B.T. Manheims, Marc Joyners, Jellyrolls, etc. These apes need to grow up and get a life. There is a whole big bad world of life and literature to discover beyond the narrow realm of the poseur. And as far as talent, they’d be doing all of us a favor retiring their poetic license since they happen not to have any.

And a special note to B.T. — I’m in remission, dickhead. I just can’t die and leave the literary world to jerk-offs like you.