In honor of the LitQuake Litcrawl this evening…a little discourse on ego…
The Me Poet
by B. Tyler Burton
The me poet is not impressed.
He complains to his audience that no one gets the joke.
The we poet goes on,
gets in a little bit of trouble
and it only makes you better friends.
Instead of stalking off the stage in a huff,
or trying to explain aloud how much funnier it is
on the page
when it’s J–
instead of Jill
going up that folly hill,
the we poet says, “Fuck am I drunk, I think I forgot to type out the rest of her name.”