I am:

 too traditional for the chic neophytes,

 lack

 too much stern ignorance for the traditionalists;

far

too conformist for the non-conformist,­

and

too non-conformist for the conformist;

much

too edgy for the conservatives

yet

too conservative for the yuppies;

concluding

that, in a historical sense,

Pound would condemn my lack of structure,

Whitman my lack of anecdote,

Cummings would praise my lack of punctuation

And despise my intimate voice,

While Ginsberg would wonder, What intimacy?

Williams would laugh at my infantile subjects,

Dickinson would ask, Where are the hyphens?—

Eliot would scoff at the inclusion of emotion,

While Plath would toast her brain looking for it;

All the while, you—the modern masses—wonder

Why I keep referring to myself as I all the time,

And why the hell do I write poems that rhyme?

That has not been acceptable for years! (Has it?)

Yes, it is true, I address myself as I….

(amateur)

I write poetry that rhymes

(childish)

Sometimes (so common and juvenile)!

(see)

I switch beats from line to line

(unacceptable)

Good luck finding a meter

(impossible)

—Categorize me as you will,

Your private Ivy League education demands it.

The bittersweet set of rules that bind your genius

Ironically allows ignorance to set me free.

I am not conforming to you,

You are conforming to me.

I wrote this poem at 3am

(nude)

Keep looking for a reason

(missing)

I am not:

Interested in your

(opinion)