Hiram Addison Jackson (1965-2017)
To Make an Omelet of Poetry,
Some Eggs Must Be Broken
JPR 09
• Did Unfriend me on the Facebook.
• Did block me on her Twitter.
• Did kick me off a poetry Listserv.
• Did humble me badly on the Instagram.
• Did done blocked my email.
• Did wrote my boss at Starbucks saying I was a “troublemaker,” that I didn’t clean my hands after using the commode and that I even did drink from the commode.
• Did said in a meeting of the Boston Review that he “hated” me.
• Did said she desired to send me some “good anthrax” in the postal.
• Did done actually called the cops on me for merely standing outside her window, wailing her precious name in my pain.
• Did done actually called the cops on a bunch of young peacefully protesting poets at the big Poetry building, now what poet could have been so diseased in his or her heart to do that?
• Did call me a Bespauler and a Babolyne.
• Did unkindly delete all my comments on his blog.
• Did threateneth to unseemly sue me.
• Did actually sue me.
• Did done blocketh me on Twitter.
• Did done blacklisted my good name.
• Did useth the tape of a 1970s debate I was in with a famous poet, yet without my permission in copyright.
• Did put up flyers about me on the campus, claiming I was a “pedophile goat with crabs.”
• Did blocketh me on Twitter.
• Did done organized a character assassination campaign against my good name.
• Did wrote a bad review about my poetry out of purest spite.
• Did gossip maliciously about my good name.
• Did done lied about me to the ends of the earth.
• Did encourage others to never answer my emails nor my postcards.
• Did done threatened to report me to the Security Services in Tupelo.
• Did done said I was a Drate-Poke and a Driggle-Draggle.
• Did kicketh me off a poetry Listserv.
• Did wrote me a note that sayeth, Don’t let the screen door hit you in the ass on the way out.
• Did wrote an essay saying I was full of “White Male Rage.”
• Did done humiliated me on the Instagram.
• Did wrote an essay saying my chapbook, all of whose copies were sewn by my sisters, was the “case study of when everything goes bad for mentally ill poets in Mississippi.”
• Did done called my mother anonymously and said she never should have born me, You worthless Yankee slut, she said to my poor mother, who never hurt a flea.
• Did done threateneth to kill my cat.
• Did unseemly slept with my former wife, which is why I sought recompense with the derringer, and of this I do not repent.
• Did said she would tell everyone I voted for Trump, even though she knows I merely abstained because Hillary is in the pockets of the big Yankee banks.
• Did done Unfriended me from the Facebook.
• Did slept with my former boyfriend.
• Did done Unfriended me from the Facebook (this happens commonly, as you can see).
• Did slept with my former girlfriend.
• Did slept with my father.
• Did done blocked me from their Twitter.
• Did slept with my daughter, Beulah.
• Did done claimed I was a Gnashgah and a Gobermouch.
• Did bumped me off the National Book Award long list.
• Did lobbied against me being on the National Book Critics Circle long list.
• Did done sprayed bear mace in my drink at a cocktail party for rich Yankee poets.
• Did blocketh my email.
• Did done pretended to fall asleep at my reading.
• Did Unfriend me from the Facebook.
• Did done actually fell asleep at my reading, in a snoring.
• Did tied me up and burned my chest with a lit cigar, the snake.
• Did put me in a coffin box and buried me alive, the scoundrel.
• Did done stole the idea of my poem and published it as her idea, the wench.
• Did shot me, thrown me in the trunk of a car, and then cut me up into small pieces, middle of the night, in a foul smelling copse, north of Mobile, the New Yorker bounders.
• Did humble me badly on the Instagram.
• Did done called me a sexist and a prude, an interesting combine of insults.
• Did done Unfriended me on the Facebook.
• Did suggest I was the Jeffrey Dahmer of poetry, even after I promoted his poetry to the skies.
• Did called me a “feckless bitch.”
• Did put her diseased spit into my drink at Orono.
• Did done squeezed his acne pimples and saved all the pus, then mixed it into my latte, while I was in the toilet at the Hyatt, between panels, and for no other reason than jealously at my Pushcart nomination.
• Did done called me a minor poet, what a joke, I don’t claim to be James Dickey, but she’s one million times more minor than I!
• Did done said he’d give me an ‘A’ if I’d pee on him all over.
• Did said I needed to “get some mental help.”
• Did left pornographic comments on my Facebook in Hungarian, using the translation machine.
• Did imply I was a Rakefire and a Saddle-Goose.
• Did tied me to a bed while I slept and then broke my legs with a baseball bat, before bringing a razor blade into the room and sawing off my you know what, while reciting Beowulf.
• Did spreadeth “not-nice” gossip about me, and all over the county.
• Did make fun of my “porn” moustache, as they called it.
• Did done unfriended me from the Facebook.
• Did wrote my publisher, to say I’d forced myself on her, when it was she who had unseemly bellowed, three days fore, on our anniversary, completely out of nowhere, the two of us just sitting there pleasant (and after I’d given her a set of earrings to celebrate her first published poem), that she hoped her secret boyfriend would take me cuffed to a cabin out in the woods, where five meth heads would rape me and then put a rabid mouse up my rectal.
• Did refuse to acknowledge my Friend request.
• Did done looketh at my crotch, I think, at a reading.
• Did shouteth I was a Scobberlotcher and a Snoutband.
• Did done blocked my email.
• Did done spread gossip about my penis after she’d accidentally walked in on me in a collective shower room, in China, where we were on avant-garde reading tour, paid for by the generous and kind Chinese government, and the shower room was freezing because it was winter and the heat had gone off, and so my penis was the size of a button mushroom, but she thought this was the normal size of my sex, so she went and told a whole bunch of people at her program about my “button mushroom” penis, over email, and she did this, I’m sure, because I have more publications than she has.
• Did glance at my breasts, I think, at a cash bar, AWP.
• Did humble me badly on the Instagram.
• Did done sayeth she wanted to set fire to my house while my family and I were tied up inside, screaming for God to please save us.
• Did unkindly make fun of my man boobs and love handles.
• Did done sayeth I’d never have a career in poetry after I said something critical about Language poetry on a Language poetry Listserv.
• Did wrote a long review and said something about everyone in the anthology, except for me.
• Did refuseth to help me get me an interview at the AWP, even though I helped him get maybe three.
• Did Unfriended me from the Facebook.
• Did done refuseth to invite me to read at his college, even though I’d invited her twice.
• Did done say that if he had one wish it would be to burn down the village of my ancestors in late 18th century Maine, after having scalped everyone with the help of Native Americans still loyal to the Crown, so that no one after 1798 in my lineage would be born, least of all me.
• Did blocketh my email.
• Did unkindly scream I was a Muck-Spout and a Mumblecrust.
• Did done said he would like to tie me to a chair and force me to slowly eat the roasted, blistered corpse entire of a certain corpulent American President, lest penalty of the torture-death of all of my children and relatives, immediate and distant.
• Did wrote a very bad review about me just to soil my good name.
• Did said mean things about me in workshop, even though I slept with him, doing the most unspeakable acts, just to satisfy his disgusting longings.
• Did stood me up in Sarajevo, on purpose, even though I’d invited them to go there with me.
• Did block me from her seven Twitter accounts.
• Did done plagiarized me in the Denver Review.
• Did done blocked me from his Twitter account.
• Did sendeth me postcards from springtime Paris, the notes dripping with aggression, asking me, for example, how things were, back at Tupelo State.
• Did plagiarize me again (a different poet) in the Denver Review.
• Did plagiarize me in his hot book of anti-war poems a few years before he won the National Book Award for a second book of anti-war poems.
• Did done Unfriended me from the Facebook.
• Did put a piece of big wood in my pillow, at a poetry conference in England, which nearly broke my head.
• Did done never even thanked me for the review book copy I sent her after I’d reviewed her book on my Facebook page.
• Did the water-board on me in the secret basement of the $23 million big Poetry building, and because I never gave them any names they put a plastic bag over my head and asphyxiated me, a horrible death.
• Did said she’d interview me for an important journal and never did and probably never intended to, I realize, now.
• Did done put a cherry bomb into my cat’s ass and lit it.
• Did hiss I was a Wandought and a Yaldson.
• Did done told me they’d never even heard of my poetry before.
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