This is it. My opponents believe they can impugn, incite, irradiate, ignore, and ignite me with no consequences. They have never been so wrong in their frequently-mistaken lives.Barschatz calls my work "pedestrian" (sic) and "marathon" at the same time; she of the 900-page coming-of -age novel with neither birth nor adolescence in its pages. She of the ghosts that waste pages but never interact with the characters. She of the gray covers and fading print. Cayne compiles the definitive list of avant garde poets of 2005, and neglects mention Debuse even as an also-ran. Who ever read Cayne's poems outside of his own anthologies? Who ever still thinks that eighteenth-century diction is garde, much less avant? Brodersen calls me "unpublished" when I have delivered more books of poems to the world in the last ten years than he has written lines. Brodersen who considers Haiku "free form". Brodersen who considers found poetry as "without creativity or merit". Brodersen who failed the Mensa entrance exam the year we both sat. Who considers his wife's work "crucial to the development of our culture". Smith who reviews for Village Voice but has no experience of writing or rhyming beyond highschool. West who thinks the study of meter more appropriate use of a poet's time than the photographing of graffiti. Bradley who never leaves Toronto for fear that it may not be there when he returns.
From now on, I will be here to respond. It may not be pretty.
