Can't there be something great in the sheer number of poets working today? Can it be like a fabulous bazaar, poems bunched and offered like flowers-- exotic sellers, startling colors?
It doesn't feel like that now. Diffusion. Too diffuse.
As though I walked into the drug store and saw 10,000 different brands of shampoo. So many options I don't feel delighted by the choice. Instead the suspicion all shampoo is the same. Too many choices, creating the feeling of sameness? How does that work?
Also something autistic about the circles of writers. Backs turned out to the readers, faces turned to each other.
Looking for a way to make a really joyful noise.