-an advisory to the chronically unpublished poets-

stop trying so hard to stick the ending.

you figure skating?

you shootin’ at something in Texas?

don’t let them con you into "sticking the ending".

I know what I’m talking about.

I’ve stuck the endings to more poems

than Donald Trump has lunatics.

all it’s gotten me is a rotation of guilt and penance !

get off you knees at the feet of the kingshits of poetry.

let loose your word groups to shit their own ice cream !

fuck the fucking ending.

let’s get back to poetry's beginnings where the titles are.

you remember the titles, don't you?

remember how the titles gave you birth,

let you suckle the breast warmed with the sweet

milk of your own tongue?

we can't all be Emily of Amherst !

what's that? you think the way you end a poem

will get it published? Whassamatta U ?!

look. listen to me.

the snazzy ending kills the poem, murders it,

slices its throat !

and it's going to lay there like a plank

at the bottom of the column anyway, no matter

what you say, or how you say it, or how much

you agonize over it. so screw it !

fuck the ending ! just end the freakin' thing for chrissakes !

(however, please keep in mind

that I could be wrong about all of this.)