You know the type:
white, middle-aged, male.
Flaunts his MFA.
Hasn’t been laid
by a woman with a brain
for at least twenty years.
Runs his workshop
like a poetry pogrom.
Complains your work is
too realistic, hard-edged.
Lavishes attention
on the rhyming blonde
with enormous breasts.
Knocks back beers
alongside a slam poet
wearing tight leather pants.
His red pencil
tortures your lines,
removes the teeth
from a story.
Turns your voice into
an imitation of his.
Suggests asphyxiation
by adjectives
as a final solution.
Jennifer reads "Dr. Nazi's Poetry Workshop":
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Jennifer confesses: "The character in this poem is a compilation of the various slimeballs I've encountered at writing workshops who use their position to pick up women or parade their egos."
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