I wish I could. It's nothing personal, Wallace. I actually quite like your poetry and I think it's a shame that I'd never heard of you until I came here. However, two of my courses are teaching your works at the same time which means that I have a Wallace Stevens class every day, as well as two essays on you. Thus I am having an overdose of you and wouldn't mind going back in time and murdering you, though if I had a choice of murdering any poet of your generation, I'd probably take out Ezra Pound because A) He was nasty Nazi piece of shit and B) He inflicted T.S. Bloody Eliot on the world.
That said, if you don't mind coming back and explaining what the blind parakeet means, that'd be really helpful. So far I've found a critic who thinks it's God and a critic who thinks it's the sun. I don't think it's either. I think it's a critique of the American audience being blinded by the flashiness of prose and ignoring poetry, or it is just a blind parakeet.
Sorry Wallace.
Love, Rubber Duckie.
P.S. Did you know that I have a friend who named their son Eliot after T.S.?
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