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.

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