Don’t read Paul Killebrew’s poetry

I am absolutely not hesitating insisting on this. DON’T FUCK-ING READ HIM. For poetry is of a finite quantity. It cannot fill up the entire human race or the human population of any of these United States or the kilobyte and megabyte and gigabyte database capacity assigned every record that has been accorded to Paul Killebrew’s call log. I am reading Paul Killebrew, he is nothing there but himself. The poems are a pealed onion that Stephen Burt would likely get annoyed about and label “neo-surrealist” with punitive intentions. Stephen Burt, be punitive intentions to Paul Killebrew so no one will read the poems. I need this Paul Killebrew alone for me. Have you ever noticed how much people focus on the “nothing” at the center of a pealed onion, and meanwhile, there’s still all this onion left on the counter top? Whatever capacity I have, it has been assigned to absorbing Paul Killebrew. HE IS ABSORPTION AND HONOR! He is an absorbent paper towel pictured on TV. He is all the awkward advertisements they are making these days for toilet paper. Maybe he’s toilet papers stuffing flowers in the private places on your body. Quit looking at me Google Image of Paul Killebrew’s face.