Dear Lester Oracle:
It has come to my attention that you like to use a blog just so you can talk
to yourself in public. Maybe you consider your writing more authentic if
you respond to people who see you as irrelevant or worse.
Far be it from you to be discouraged by your absenting from discourse. Oh
no. You feel it is your need to make sociopathy appear to be an occasion
for conical birthday hats or prone canines juggling howler monkeys. You can
defend the overposted, the ignored, and the belligerent all you want. You
can post poems that operate with rules that are neither quite organic nor
algorithmic. Those are much less than boring. You can post political
journalism but you forget you are simply being negative or that 10,000
Francophiles can quote pseudophilosophical crap establishing the utter
hopelessness about change. Ah, "change," a cute concept for the desperately
naive! You can insist that proper names are an occasion for becoming
properly pissed. You can design websites but no one knows what the fuck you
are talking about. It is painfully clear that you are not talking about
anything relevant. Pink web pages, pal? Somebody back me up here!
You can attend readings, performances and publish in journals. Be rest
assured that no one listens, no one reads. You can write books, but clearly
they are unfocused, disparate, unworthy of white whale status. That one
time we bothered to glance at you, you were not there. Let's be honest.
You will never be. We see right through you. Your art stinks.
Writing is no mirror; it is not sufficient for reflection. Neither are you
sufficient. Though, of course, I'd like to have sex with you. But only
when you are dead and your bone is ash. You are a vapid fraud formed from
vapor. Ah, to heckle the dead and buried! It is your most worthy remark. A
mirror is not when dark.
What's worse, you write letters to yourself on this blog, wasting bandwidth
and people's time in an apparent attempt to draw even more attention to
yourself, to maybe sucker some people into delivering some pity to you.
Ranting on and on with self-abuse and disregard. As if pity is a worthy
remedy for a lack of attention. Forget it. Push your shopping cart out of
here. Or stay here. Cheap tricks. I do not care. Even in your
ephemerality you are frightfully pathetic. Your mirrors consume themselves
into wisps of nothing.
PS: You might help your reality if you attend graduate school. Especially
if it gives you the opportunity to spend 20-30K a year reading the horrible
doctoral dissertations your professors excused into book form and sloughed
off as serious criticism. It will make you someone, maybe even a published
PSS: Don't tell anyone that I wrote you. Thanks.