No, it’s not a real poetry collection.
No, I didn’t write the one line poem attributed to me.
No, I didn’t give my permission for, or seek, inclusion in this farcical volume.
But think about it. If you ARE a living poet and you WERE somehow included, it’s probably one of the few, if not the ONLY time in your life that you will be included as a “poet” along with the likes of Rainier Maria Rilke, Walt Whitman, Jack Keroauc or even Ron Silliman.
This freak act of iambic penterrorism, or whatever you want to call it, has by the simple fact of random collection given you, me and everyone else on its table of contents a kind of legitimacy — the same kind of legitimacy that we now share with 98% of historical figures, that we are referenced in print by yet another source.
In this world of screen names, false accounts, spoofed IP addresses, and other ridiculously easy ways to remain anonymous while spouting damn near anything from a virtual soapbox, maybe that’s as “REAL” as it’s ever going to get.
And as a parting thought … think of the MILLIONS of folks who post what they call poetry on their websites, on poetry bulletin boards, anywhere they can get access, that their friends and readership laud with attaboys, right ons and “oh how deeps” … folks who remind us all of watching American Idol audition outtakes (if they were for poets, instead) who WEREN’T included on this voluminous list. Why us, instead of them? Perhaps because some of us in this anthology actually ARE poets.