The new rock star poet... Why Billy Corgan? Why? Why did you go and do it? Why did you publish that book of poetry? I rather preferred you as a know it all, uncompromising, musical genius rock star. Why did you have to go and publish a book of such flaccid, pedestrian poetry? Yet...even the New York Times Book Review gave you a pass and refused honesty. You probably invited them to a fabulous book release party with free caviar, cocaine and hookers. Why Billy? Why? Why did you have to swipe income and take food from starving mouths of the poor poet hordes? They need the money, they need whole wheat spaghetti, meatless sauce and cheap red wine. Don’t you have enough money Billy? You just had to scrape a few more dollars off poetry’s barroom floor? Why couldn’t you have written a novel and usurped some the fiction writers cash? They got plenty. Why Billy? Why? Wasn’t the satisfaction of your rock star dreams enough? Haven’t you dipped your wick sufficiently in rock groupie pool? Now you have to swoop in low on the narrow halls of poetry groupies too? The poor poets will never have a chance, will never get laid, will never realize the limited fruit of their limited words, when they have to stand next to your white hot, blazing, beautiful self. Why Billy? Why? Why did you go and do it? Well, you did it and now, you leave me no choice. I’ll have to take a break from poetry, pick up a guitar, become a rock star, I’ll fuck Courtney and spread rumors that she found you naked in bed with Kurt. That will fix your little red rock star wagon! Send you yipping tail twixt legs back to your mansion! Ensure you never publish another lame book of poetry and steal meatless whole wheat spaghetti and cheap red wine from my mouth again, you greedy, beautiful, white hot, musical genius, rock star! Now autograph your book for me dammit! I’ve waited in line for four hours.