Diminishing Returns
Though Wessington has outlived his
usefulness as a literary character, I want to salute his production
of
meter, metonymy, multi-entendre,
antisthecon, critical theory, insanity and wisdom. So long as this
page survives, it will prove the rebuttal to those who say
self-published internet poetry isn't top-notch.
When I started with KW, I had been
thinking about Henry Miller's hostility as a literary character. I
thought of Rimbaud slipping semen and sulfuric acid in the drinks of
friends. Honestly, I thought that the desperation of Thomas de Quincy
combined with the literary rigor of Keats might reward me. At times,
Khakjaan was simply a thinly veiled mouthpiece for his creator, yet
wearing my Wessington catsuit made me KW as much as Daniel Day Lewis
is some 19th century fucker or other when filming.
Ultimately, Wessington is a contrarian.
As a character, he was an excellent outlet for every flicker of
anti-social thought that manifested in my ephemeral whimsy (to
imagine the lives of others is to summon their loves and hatreds).
Over time, I realized this was an asset insofar as the critical
component of Wessington was concerned, but otherwise was a major
liability for me, his creator. Quite honestly, I've squandered his/my
precocity for verse through impatience, self-aggrandizement and a
zeal for telling talentless fucks they're talentless fucks.
The world isn't a meritocracy. Nobody
wants to help an asshole, no matter how rad an asshole he may be.
Just like those movies where some baby evolves a huge head and is
psychic and winds up trying to enslave humanity: nobody cares if he's
the next step in evolution—who will root for a jerk? (He also dies
in the end) I will insist until the day I die that KW's Toylit was my
1st masterpiece—a part of me believes this will be
recognized someday—yet the pragmatic part of me recognizes that my
poetry is way too good for the self-published internet and will never
be recognized as such due to the enormous number of enemies KW has
made over the years.
Of course, what's missing in all of
this is that KW has given you hundreds of high quality poems that
range from hilarious to tragic. Even now, I feel real bitterness over
the non-recognition of Toylit by basically every supposed 'online lit
mag' that purports to publishing/knowing the best of the best. Yet, I
realize that Toylit primarily appeals to other writers (and lost
internet porn seekers) and that these writers have their own
websites. We are all drinking from the same well and the institutions
that should recognize the best of us, will never take us seriously.
There are times when this angers me, but I'd be a liar if I said
Toylit didn't take me to my ultimate potential as a craftsman. I've
met so many talented writers online (outsiders without pen names) and
I've learned so much from them (avoided at least 40 years of mistakes
and dead ends), I have no regrets. I wrote a news poem every day for
over a year. I went from clumsy iambs to semi-abstract metrical
schemas in 3 years; from literalism to genuine poesis. There is no
substitute for writing a rigorous daily poem when it comes to
building poetic might. I can write any poem I want now and TRULY,
that is the only reward that matters.
As I sorted through boxes of books a
few weeks back, I found the original edition of Toylit—circa July,
2000. It's a tabloid with a staple in the middle that I distributed
through the restrooms of San Francisco. I signed my name to each poem
with the expectation Michael Krasney would call and ask me about the
future of avant garde poetry. Ha ha. Some would say my poetry
degenerated; the original Toylit is filled with semi-confessional
verse and dreams made literary—vivid and image dense with memorable
characters and manifestos. Yet it was too literal for me. Somehow, I
had to remove my 'self' from my Orphic voice (don't be a dumbass and
say it's not possible). KW became the ultimate expression of my
underground spirit. Yet if we stay in a metaphorical cabin, we are as
likely to become the Unabomber as Nathaniel Hawthorne. My KW skinsuit
is a cabin and Toylit is my post office. Nate returned to the world
after learning how to write. If I stay in this cabin, I will become a
literary Ted Kaczynski. Like him, staying ensconced in this
metaphorical cabin will mean I'll never reach my true potential as a
writer—even if my craft continues to improve. I was going to have
Wessington commit 'virtual' suicide, but I was worried many of you
would think it was a cry for help from his creator. Therefore, I
salute you in this open letter. Those I know personally, I thank you
for your support. Those of you who started off as random-ass web
visitors before becoming regulars, I greatly appreciate your
attention and taste. Thank you. I hope you continue to support
rigorous, independent verse. Will I be tempted to don my KW costume
and write another news poem? Of course. I reserve the right to do
that, even though it is bad for me. Every poem KW writes is a poem I
can't send out for publication.
If I could leave you with a final KW
thought though, it's this: stop coddling twaddle and twaddlers.
Final Salute from my KW Skinsuit,
The Meta-Author
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