At the fair, pushing

I think the goal was to completely stop writing about poetry here, but that hasn't quite happened yet. The goal of sitting down now to write was to write about the goal of what I've been writing. But I don't think I care. Why post these writings on a blog rather than keep them filed away in a folder on my hard drive? There're a few points I could argue. But why? My kids, I hope, will need no argument.
      —•—
At the fair, pushing Dash in his stroller, I stop at the end of one of the tents. An empty spot. KC and Vaughn somewhere behind me, standing in a line for soft-serve ice cream. I'm looking out at the swarm of people, bodies in T-shirts and shorts, nauseating expressions of their excited faces as they talk and walk to the tractor pull or the sheep tent or the exit. I hate 'em all. I'm that good of a person. Are there really people who believe you can write poems for everybody? Or maybe that's a strawman that gets thrown around? When poets write on their blogs about populist versus elitist poetry what exactly's implied? Staring out into the crowds, I suppose writing for anybody's a nice sentiment. In a certain slant of light I can get behind that. But what kind of writing's that? "Writing." I've had enough with my precious distinctions between "writing" and "making," which smells of that animal smell that swabbed my nose when we were passing through the ticket booth. Is all hate born of self-hate or just some of it? KC and Vaughn return with their soft serves. At least today there won't be any damn jets flying overhead like they sometimes have done at New Milford's big gatherings on the green. Hate's the second most useful emotion. The danger's that it must be applied discriminately.