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A Statement Long Overdue

I’ll just get this out of the way quickly. I sincerely apologize for the hurt and pain I have caused people in the literary community regarding some of my poetry (particularly the Misogyny poems), which I sincerely deceived myself into believing had a noble purpose behind it, but was really just me deluding myself of my own importance in a field I still struggle to find a place in. I was wrong, and I take responsibility for it, having done much reflecting and introspection since the time period of which I was embroiled in that controversy. Again, I was wrong, I accept it, and I don’t expect to be forgiven by those who want to hate me for writing obscene things, I just want to put all that idiocy behind me once and for all, and move on with my life. I hope that someday those who I hurt with words, as much as words are capable of causing hurt, can at least try to empathize with what prompted my provocations, as much as I have tried to empathize with the reactions to the work, and that we can agree to just put it in the past. That’s all I am asking here. I understand that forgiveness may not be earned in this case, but I am trying to do the right thing and admit my mistakes for what they were, just pure delusional stupidity, coming from a person who still struggles with self-image and clinical depression issues, and who allowed those issues to manifest in extreme outbursts of hurtful words disguised as awful poems.

This is all prompted from a recent reading of the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, from which I gleaned several valuable lessons about perception and the self, and how perception can blind us when stunted by personal belief. One of the lessons in that book that really struck a chord with me, was that in order to understand the world, you must first take a hard unbiased look at the self, and understand your own problems, work on fixing those problems, and only when you are healed can you begin to work earnestly at understanding and finding a place in the grander scheme of existence, and maybe help heal others or larger problems. And so, having this in my mind, and having already been thinking for several months about what went wrong with my poetry, I have had to make some difficult acknowledgements of my own deficiencies as a human being, and try to make some changes. The first of these changes is that I have to stop refusing to admit when I am wrong. The next is I have to sincerely apologize for being wrong. The next is I have to rekindle my inner humility in a world that doesn’t even have to pay attention to the fact I am alive within it. Some of this I have accomplished through distancing myself somewhat from social media and a voracious addiction to attention (or the perception of attention) given by that superficial lust. The rest I tried to accomplish through meditation on healing and empathy.

I have changed a lot over this time period. Aside from moving all the way across the USA, I have tried to reconnect with nature, reestablish authentic connections with friends and family, and just live a healthier life with as little conflict as possible. My stepfather died this past September, and that was particularly hard for me. The challenges of dealing with such a loss amid some petty family disputes really put the finite nature of a lifespan into perspective for me, really had me trying to measure the importance of things. I found that these literary feuds I had previously let consume my time and attention the past few years were in the long run going to be meaningless. These things are not important at all. They are a distraction, a distraction that removes you from the actual experience of being alive and contributing meaningfully to that experience. I am sorry for ever falling prey to such a narcissistic pitfall of an illusion. I don’t want this small blip of a failure in judgment to be what defines me as an individual, or the broader scope of work I leave behind.

Recently, I was shared a psychological profile of Borderline Personality Disorder, and I was disturbed by how many of those boxes I checked for myself. I don’t know if I have that disorder, but it was humbling to me to feel even remotely the possibility of it. I know that I have struggled with depression most of my life, with suicidal thoughts, with an uncontrollable desire to fit in and be liked that I have never been able to fulfill except in small doses, and these issues have only been exacerbated by my addiction to the internet and social media. I was bullied ruthlessly most of my young life and adolescent life, I was raised in a turbulent environment, I struggled with relationships and rejection which culminated in an intense fear of rejection, and now I still bear the burden of how these experiences have scarred my mind, to the point that I am often uncomfortable around others, including things as simple as family get-togethers or friendly social gatherings. In my mind, I still struggle to fit in, no matter where I am.

Knowing that, I can now look back at what went down with my work in the poetry community and see it all as attempts to please others and fit in, and then attempts to self-destruct when those attempts failed. I convinced myself I was in the right, that I was the one under attack, that I was the one being shunned and bullied, and my reactions to those things were to lash out and provoke my perceived attackers. Much like violence only begets more violence, resentment only begets more resentment, and negativity only breeds more negativity. I felt caught in a riptide of a downward spiral of my own making, and I became so far entrenched in it with my own self-righteousness that I was helpless to stop myself. This was in effect, part of a repeated cycle of behavior I had nurtured online through addiction to attention and getting off on stirring the pot of provocation. I had allowed myself to become addicted to the whirlwind of internet outrage. Not only because I felt that outrage was blatantly in the wrong, but because I enjoyed the attention of pissing off as many people as possible. I had seen what others had done in this vein, and I vowed to do it better. In other words, I was an absolute asshole.

I understand that nothing I say or do now can take it back, and honestly, I don’t want to take it back, you can’t take back what you said or what you did, because it already happened. Perhaps if I had a time machine, I could try to talk some sense into myself, but I think the person I am today is better for having gone through it and having to learn from these mistakes. Those poems can stand as a testament of what not to do as far as I am concerned, the most grievous of errors between perceived intent and audience reception, and how art no longer belongs to its artist once it has been delivered for consumption to the world. The artist can’t ultimately decide what their work means. Time and context cease to matter as time continues to move and original context is forever lost to the ether, and so what only remains is how that work is perceived and critiqued, and how those perceptions evolve and maybe over time the critiques will as well. I think artistic intent shouldn’t be completely ignored, but it doesn’t have any ultimate effect on audience perception at all, and has to be considered separately. I can look at those poems for instance and say that they are my own version of Horror Film Poems, that I tried to load them with allusions to popular horror movies and literature, from Don’t Breathe, to Human Centipede and Hostel, to Grimm Fairy Tales, to H.P. Lovecraft, that I was trying to make a statement about the perception of satire and how it can be skewed by the simplicity of titles and dedications, to the difference between real world trauma and the written word, but at the end of the day, none of those things matter. What matters is perception, just like the lesson gleaned from Motorcycle Maintenance. I allowed my own belief to blind my perception of what I was doing. I am not saying I am the only one this happened to, as I am sure people have preconceptions of my work that may have impacted their perceptions of it as well. But I am admitting my own failures here and just finally wanting to put this whole charade to bed once and for all. I am sincerely sorry and will live with the regret of it for the whole remainder of my life. And I continue to pay the price for it, for writing poetry that offended and hurt people in ways I will never understand, and for believing I was totally entitled to write such poetry without consequences. I also hurt those who had defended me in the past, making myself into a character so despicable I alienated myself from peers and friendships I had worked so hard to build by becoming a monstrous villain of truly indefensible stature. I tried to make myself an artistic martyr for freedom of expression, and failed so gloriously that I became a joke. I am a joke.

So, in closing, I continue to find solace in the fact that I am nobody. I am not a great poet or writer, I am not a great person. I am just a person. In the end that is all anyone ever gets to be, and I will continue to try and find a place in this world that allows me to be the best version of that person I can be, as long as I am trying to find out who that person truly is. Thank you for reading this, and if you are one of the people who was hurt by my poems, or one of the people who tried to ostracize me from the poetry community, or even just someone with a vague interest in all this, I hope you can find the truth here, and see it comes from an earnest place of remorse and blatant honesty. I hold no animosity or anger toward anyone who tried to ruin me or my work. I deserved it. I let it go. I let it go and admit to my own part in creating the whole ridiculous circus of that mess. I hurt people with carelessly provocative work, and I am eternally sorry for doing so, for believing that art is more sacred than emotion, and for somehow believing I was the person capable of making such a statement. And I hope to never make the same mistake twice. I believe in second chances and even third chances. Maybe someday we all get them.

Thank you.

On recent poetry plagiarism

Word thief
~after Ailey O’toole

Word thief, spit your teeth,
your bodily topography
is all-too-familiar.
God in your skin?
More akin to demon
than deity,
more likely to take
& take & take
& take
& take & take.

I’ve looked into your mouth,
and I know well
the points of those
hell-spangled fangs,
still wet with blud
of all you’ve consumed,
all you’ve claimed
as a reckoning of your own.

Ramshackle tableau
disowned,
like the borrowed wings
of barking hogs,
and I ask now,
whose wings are you wearing?

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
bitch, I DON’T accept it.

It was a mistake,
made again
& again
& again & again
& again
& again & again
for which you
will never be forgiven,
since your fame
has bitten
more than it could ever
chew.

The Whisper Network

The Unreliability of the Whisper Network

Having been a victim of the Twitter Shame Mob and knowing what it is like to be chased across the virtual landscape of the internet by an outraged group of crazies hefting their pitchforks and torches, I wanted to touch on what I believe to be the main and inherent flaw of this form of internet activism, and that is how it’s based on a grievous and perilous perversion of the truth. The people involved in these gang-shaming activities do not rely on factual information. Instead they rely on what they refer to as their “whisper network.” This is information that is shared between individuals on a secretive basis, and then networked out between them through private dialogues that no one else gets access to. They say they do this to protect the original sources of the information, but what ends up happening is the accusations become more and more exaggerated, and the original subtext or context gets lost in transition, until all that remains is outlandish and scandalous accusations that spread like wildfire through the Twittersphere and elsewhere.

Anyone who has ever played the game Telephone as a child knows exactly what I am talking about. You don’t even have to have played the game to know the basic concept of it, and how it works. Someone whispers something in another person’s ear and tells them to pass it on. It could be something as simple as, “Billy thinks Susie is cute.” But by the time it has been passed on by twenty to forty people, the message that is spread by the fortieth person is completely different, having morphed into something that could be as outlandish as, “Billy put his tongue in Susie’s butt.” As a game played by children this is funny, but when rumors and gossip or serious conversations are spread this way by adults, the results are quite unnerving. And this is why the Whisper Network fails and should not be trusted.

I have personally witnessed the horrific effect this type of information sharing has had on others and have witnessed its effects on a personal level. Having differences of opinion on hot-button discussions quickly had me labeled “asshole,” and then “troll,” and then “misogynist, sexist, racist,” and then “serial harasser.” All of course bullshit, but on the internet people use these labels in an effort to delegitimize their perceived opponents and to silence them. The heavy-handedness and weight these labels carry make them nearly impossible to combat, because they are loaded with such vitriol and disgust, a person finds themselves immediately trying to disprove the label placed on them, rather than being able to stay on the original topic. As such, throwing one of these labels at someone is the ultimate distraction from a contested topic, especially if it is a topic of debate that is un-winnable.

This was most recently apparent in glaring fashion with another internet outrage fallout that took place over an acquaintance of mine, Rachel Custer, having the Twitter Shame Mob go after her and get her work removed from two separate journals. When I defended her, this time, the editor of one of these journals went so far as to call me “Everyone’s favorite rapist.” This was clearly a distraction tactic, and it worked to a degree, because I was so incensed over being called a rapist, that I focused on trying to get that accusation taken down from facebook/twitter for several days after it happened. And despite this outlandish term being hoisted upon my name, not one of the proponents of the Twitter Mob and protectors of the “Literary Safe Spaces” stepped in to condemn the editor for their obvious misstep by slandering me with such a falsehood, despite none of these people ever setting foot in the same room with me, having no knowledge of me whatsoever other than a petty literary feud and some occasional mudslinging. The excuse I got from one Mob Member on this was, “Well, I don’t know you aren’t one.” This is another extension of how the Whisper Network version of Telephone works to distort perception. Since the editor making the statement, Topaz Winters, was an 18 year old POC, I was supposed to just not say anything about it, and to demand an apology and a retraction from her was somehow supposed to be bullying, despite the extreme nature of the slanderous term she attached to my name.

This is all a game to these people. And why not? No one gives a fuck about poetry except poets.

What had I done this time to deserve their vitriol? I had defended another writer. Rachel Custer is another writer who has been wrongly vilified by the Twitter Mob, in much the same fashion as I have. It’s the same group of people who repeatedly go after writers such as her every time their work gets published somewhere. It’s like a group of mad ravens that start dancing and cawing every time a worm pops its way out of the ground for a peek at the sunlight, and they all start fighting over which bird is going to gobble up the worm until it decides to go back into hiding and leave them back at their starvation unto cannibalism ritual. As far as I can tell, Rachel has done nothing to any of these people that deserves such hatred. Much like me, her encounters with this group of indie publishing Nazi hacks have all occurred online, in much the same fashion. She friended fellow writers on facebook. She had arguments with writers over issues like politics, police brutality, immigration, the presidential election, etc. Her beliefs are different from a lot of poets in that she is an evangelical Christian and a conservative. So naturally, her ideas about some topics like, abortion, healthcare, feminism, they are going to be leaning in a slightly to more moderately different direction, and this caused conflict. Her ideas about police brutality for instance, which was a hot button issue after the Ferguson riots and other similar situations at the time, had her defending the police force while everyone else was saying “fuck the police.” I remember clearly that many folks were calling her a racist for her views. And it got so old to her she started sarcastically replying, “So what,” or “I’m not even arguing with you about this, you want me to be a racist, fine, I’m racist.” This was clearly her way of trying to point out that calling someone a racist over a difference of opinion about a complicated topic was a copout, a way of getting frustrated and ending the argument, taking the ball and running away from the game instead of trying to finish it. It’s simply self-defeating and polarizing rather than working toward any kind of common ground.

The other BIG problem people have with Rachel Custer is that she supports Donald Trump. I can’t defend that stance because I don’t understand it at all, but politics is a complicated arena and people have many different reasons for supporting the candidate they choose to support. Not everyone is a single issue voter, though many people are. Personally, I don’t see how anyone can still support Trump given everything that has happened since he took office, but there is a lot of misinformation spread, and many people buy into it rather than try and own up to the truth. At any rate, Rachel wrote a poem that got published in Rattle that supported Trump, and basically the internet mob lost their fucking shit over it. It was like the culmination of three big taboos in one atomic bomb explosion of an event. You had Rattle, already hated. Rachel, already hated. Trump, very hated. A perfect storm of social outrage. An unprecedented VIOLATION of the literary safe space! It was unconscionable. It was an OUTRAGE. The Twitter Mob has never forgiven it.

There was also the big blow up around this time of Rachel getting kicked out of the secret Facebook group, the Binders of Women and Nonbinary Poets. See how complicated all this is? It’s like layer upon layer of high school cafeteria cliques, a metaphysical onion of seedy gossip and nepotism and self-righteous corruption. It just goes and goes and goes.

I don’t want to go to much into the Binders of Women and Nonbinary Poets, but it is the source of the Literary Gestapo’s power. It’s a facebook group of something like 20,000 women where they have networked and share opportunities and spread these stories of gossip and outrage so that it only takes a few hours for one of these posts about an event that they disagree with to go viral and have a veritable mob of angry keyboard warriors rioting to take down the poet who dared infringe upon anyone’s perception of safety. The admins of this group are E. Kristin Anderson and Kenzie Allen, and they have strict policies in place about keeping their work and their discussions in this group secret. No screen shots. No taking anything said in the comments of the posts or the posts themselves public. The only time any of this abuse of power was ever tried to be taken public was when the editor of Thank You For Swallowing, Cat Conway, started an anonymous Twitter page called @problematicpubs. On this page she had a list of everyone she considered to be problematic for whatever reason. I was on the list. As was Rachel. As was several other people and magazines like Rattle and B O D Y. Also on the list were actual people accused of actual sexual assault. There seemed to be no real metrics by which one was considered to be problematic. The violations ranged from being accused of being an actual rapist, to simply being an argumentative troll in facebook threads. The list had no real legitimacy, but people in the Binders believed it and added all the people to their personal “do not publish” lists for their magazines that they ran, and they told other people not to publish the perpetrators on the list. Eventually there was conflict over this Twitter feed, because obviously it promoted censorship, and it attacked people who had not really done anything wrong. The page was eventually taken down, but now you have Cat Conway once again posting threads of lists of “problematic” people and publications on Twitter, and you have things like Vida forcing publications to take their “Safer Lit Pledge” much like they force their vision of diversity through the publications of their pie charts every year.

And now, all this feels like it is reaching a point of peak hysteria. Luckily, amid all this insanity, one of the journals who removed Rachel’s work apologized to her and had it reinstated to their online archive. That journal was from OSU, and being a publicly funded university, it actually has to abide by federal discrimination law, so it could not just remove someone’s work due to their political beliefs, unlike the other journal being run by an 18 year old child. So, where does this all end exactly? I feel like we must be coming to a fork in the road where important decisions about the future of the literary landscape will need to be made. Either writers and poets will need to take a stand for TRUE FREEDOM of expression, or they will decide to do nothing and succumb to the will of a few very outspoken bullies, preaching from their pulpits of conformity. If we do nothing, I wonder just how far we can slide down this slippery slope of fascist thought-policing in art. The political landscape has certainly shown us how easy it is to let things slide past points of no return. Much like our politics, if we keep allowing the bullies to decide the rules of the game, it won’t be long until the game is rigged for just the bullies to keep winning time after time, and freedom of expression in the arts starts disappearing from even our memories, as surely the canon and any offensive work made by any problematic human will be stricken from the history books and the collective human consciousness, leaving us with only what is approved for consumption, what is safe, what is sterile, what is trigger-free, where nothing hurts and everyone is happy, or at least convinced they are in their emotionless world. Ask yourself if that’s the future you want to live to see.

A Dumpster Fire Speaks

Trash fire
for VIDA

“You can have it all,
my empire of dirt.
I will let you down,
I will make you hurt.” ~ Trent Reznor

I used to be fierce, but now I am afraid.
I’m afraid I’ve lost my ability
to tell the truth, to know
what it is I stand for.

Everything I sought I saw stripped away
when it was just out of my grasp,
like some award I felt entitled to
or the keys to a new car
car of my dreams
with its paint so shiny
and reflective
it almost seemed liquid,
or the girl at the basketball game
with the supermodel body
and the pornstar fuck-me eyes
who dared me to approach her
with her lips wet and slow
sucking a Blow-Pop and staring me down
like she wished it was my cock,
who when I finally worked up the nerve
to walk over and say hello,
just curled like a leaf
into the shoulder of her guy friend
laughing, her and her friends laughing
at how stupid I was
for thinking someone like her
would ever be interested in someone like me,

and I felt myself slip
just a bit closer to the edge
of a cliff I’d stared off of many nights alone,
down into a darkness that seemed to have no bottom,
I felt another filament of light spark out
inside myself and this time I wasn’t sure
if I’d find another bulb to replace it,
but of course I did,
and somehow I added another layer
to my person suit, zipped it up
over my previous self like a fresh baby skin,
and I managed to move on,
to find small measures of happiness
over the years, people who loved me
and then stopped loving me
only to be replaced by someone else,
and that’s how it goes
if you don’t manage to fuck everything up
beyond your scope
of seeing a way to rebuild it.

This poem isn’t even my own voice.
I should know better than to write
after reading someone else’s books,
but sometimes that’s when I’m most inspired,
I see the genius of others
and my mind starts trying to duplicate it,
to find in myself
what I found so captivating
while living in another writer’s mind.

And by now, you’re thinking I’ve lost the thread.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a poem about Truth,
you’re probably thinking to yourself.
Truth, that comically noble notion—
hold your horses, lady or gent, I’m coming back to it.
You see, when I first started writing,
I had a rabid desire to protect
the sacrosanct freedom
that I saw coming under attack:
nobody poets telling other nobody poets
what they should or should not be writing,
what was offensive and infringing on the safe spaces
of literature, what was appropriating other cultures
through the oppression of colonialist patriarchy,
what was objectifying women
treating them as totems or victims
of a fetishized male gaze,
misogyny, sexism, violence, homophobia,
transphobia, racism, ablism, Islamophobia,
agism, all these things signaled a problematic author,
someone entrenched in an outdated worldview,
someone who was probably a trash fire
and didn’t deserve to be read or even to be alive,
even if they didn’t believe what they wrote,
even if they just considered these elements
to be part of a complex reality
that needed to be seen in order to be critiqued,
they were to be shamed and shunned,
driven from literature like lepers
forced to live in caves
on the outskirts of civilization.

Fuck Bukowski. Fuck Hemingway.
Fuck Browning, fuck Carver, fuck Lowell,
fuck Ginsberg, fuck Stafford, fuck Collins.
Fuck David Foster Wallace and Brian Easton Ellis.
Fuck Chuck Palahniuk and John Updike.
Fuck Junot Diaz, Sherman Alexie, Joseph Massey.
Fuck Kenneth Goldsmith and fuck you if you like him.
Fuck William Shakespeare.
Fuck Whitman, Thoreau, and Emerson.
Men are cancelled.
Fuck the Canon. Fuck the Patriarchy.
BURN IT ALL DOWN.

I started writing poems specifically aimed
at pissing these people off.
They demand Trigger Warnings?
I’ll write the most triggering poem I can imagine,
and I’ll mock trigger warnings in the process.
Fuck your trigger warnings.
They say you can’t write about rape?
Challenge accepted.
Fuck your coddled victimhood mentality.
Don’t use racial slurs in poems.
Watch me.
Fuck your book-banning stereotypes.
Don’t mock the Prophet Muhammad.
We’ll see about that.
Fuck your precious religion.
Accuse me of appropriating someone’s abuse?
I’ll put my accusers names as titles
of the most offensive poems of all time.
Fuck you.

And this is how I lost the truth,
by fighting a battle that wasn’t mine,
in which I ended up defending myself
more than I defended the cause,
by becoming the villain
of a story that has too many villains,
attacking my attackers,
becoming a scapegoat
for what’s wrong
with white male writers,
someone no one would defend
for risk of their own credibility,
someone even a good friend
couldn’t or wouldn’t stand beside
any more
without putting their own neck
in the path of the guillotine.

Welcome to the world of internet poetry,
where years of work
building a name
can vanish over the course of three days,
where it has become commonplace
for gangs to demand
publications to remove the poems
that dared to cross imaginary lines,
and then for that poet’s work
to be scrubbed from the archives
as if they never existed
or ever wrote poems at all.

I often wonder how many of these poets
whose books I have purchased over the years,
and who I reached out to in email
or through social media chats
to express what their work meant to me,
ever bothered to buy one of my books,
or to even read the books I mailed to them
just to show my appreciation,
how many of my books
have never even been cracked open,
were just moved from padded envelopes
directly to dusty bookshelves
to begin collecting their own sheens
of shed skin, the sloughed off cells
of the poets coating the covers
of the work of a friend or a peer
they never respected enough to begin with
to give their work even the fleeting chance
of a few precious minutes
of their own attention.

In the end, it doesn’t matter,
everyone thinks they’re burning down the world,
but they’re just dancing
in their own fires,
and once the flames have all burnt out
there’ll be no one left
who cares enough
to sweep up the ashes.