How to Write a Poem
To be a poet,
You have to drink like a fish,
By which I mean:
You should do it without any clothes on
In the middle of a lake.
To be a poet,
First you will need
A bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey.
Now I'm talking whiskey
That's so cheap
It was aged in a borrowed lunch box.
I mean the stuff that's so unstable
That it's on the bottom shelf because
If it's raised above waist level,
It turns into foam, screams like Fozzy Bear,
And travels back in time.
Next,
Get drunk alone in your living room,
Wearing nothing but a swimsuit
Made of Polaroids of your ex-girlfriends.
Play the violin.
Wander sadly across moonlit sidewalks.
Hump a statue.
While smoking multiple cigarettes simultaneously,
Obsessively recite in your head,
The speech that you plan to deliver
To that gorgeous cashier at the bank,
Which will steal her undergraduate soul.
(Then maybe she'll cash your tax return check
Even though you made it yourself
Using Photoshop).
Step Three,
In your dark wanderings,
Come across a bar that has the kind of charm
That the Crypt Keeper would have
If he were a bar.
Enter the bar and sit down next to a girl
Whose soul is as rigid, and black
As her punk-rock hairdo.
Introduce yourself and shake her hand.
Then kiss her hand—
—Wait a second (!), that's not a hand,
It's a pillow! You're naked and it's morning (!),
And you're kissing a pillow shaped like Garfield (!)
And it's covered in something crusty (!) —What a killer blackout!
Step Four:
Somewhere in there, write a poem.
Here is a poem that I wrote
Over the course of the past five years.
It was recently submitted to the Indiana Review.
It goes like this:
"I love you more than I love life
(Or cheese).
Only God can make a tree.
I want to make it with you.
Roses are rose,
And violets are violet.
If you think this is a good poem,
Then feel free to highlight it."
While I was typing that poem for you,
My rejection letter came.
I guess the Indiana Review
Are not the visionaries that I was hoping for.
The rejection letter goes like this:
"Dear Mister Moore,
Your poetry is
A travesty
Of buffoonery.
As if a five-year-old child
Were pointing a handgun
At a masturbating clown.
We can not publish your poem,
You see,
Because it is currently resting
In our trash baskets:
The metaphysical equivalent
Of a mouse's corpse."
Wow. That was some great
Rejection letter!
I'm going to put my name on it
And submit it to Poetry.com !
