I am not an academic poet,
never will be.
Furthermore, I see poetics
as having factions or groups:
Academics, Slam (Performance), and Assholes.
I fall in the latter.
somehow Ritvo transcended these archetypes,
which are only archetypes to me.
I met him once,
but read his poems a bunch,
in envy of the cult status he had,
which I wanted.
I blamed on the fact that he was dying
and I was not,
but maybe it was form and lineation;
this is why I describe myself as an anti-poet
and get the gossip at festivals.
Max was smart
and in his poems I find great advice.
He would secretly look down
on the Instagram poets of today as trite,
but in public he would praise them
for furthering poetry, which I hate to agree.
when life is indelible and unfinished,
it takes on myth;
Max had myth, but was a damn good writer.
Again, I only met him once
at a poetry reading in Los Angeles
when he was already ill and over it all,
but he gave me a good moment
and the privilege of his eyes,
which if you don't know,
where intense like fire.
he'd hate me from up above,
or down below
for writing this hair treason
as he would call it.