I dislike long-winded poems by men who think themselves better than dewy-eyed me. Men who sit on high pedestals and mince words past their prime drawing out their own names on spines, in voice, and in rhymes; Men born before feminism, Black Lives Matter, or the creation of equitable ideas. They flaunt their alma maters, Big brains, Big vocabularies, and always follow the rules because it is easy to when you’ve made them. They delight in causing confusion to the lower minds who don’t spin art from polished molds. So to you, Mr. Eliot, I simply must ask, who the hell is Michelangelo?
By Anneke Zegers
