At readings, two drinks, minimum, will make you as brilliant as you think you are. This goes for the audience as well.

Never write poems using the following words, mainly because it will annoy me: blackberries, poppies, detritus, bifurcation, sluiced, slaked.

James Wright has already seen horses in a field.

Do not admit to being a poet unless asked directly. It’s kind of like saying your grandmother died. Maybe you weren’t close with your grandmother? People don’t know what to do.

Get a bad haircut and pretend it’s a good one.

Get used to disappointing your mother.

Write poems with these words in them: Squirrel. Rabbit. Rabbits are the new monkeys, they’re just funny.

Learn to read aloud without “poet voice”—that long, overdrawn singsong. Are you trying to put your audience to sleep? They’ve already had two drinks apiece.

Respect. Earn it. Use it. Own it. Being nice gets you a lot further than being a dick.

Develop at least one addiction.

When asked whether you’ve experimented with the opposite sex, say yes. Otherwise, people don’t know what to do.

Memorize at least one of your own poems to perform on command. It’s kind of like an engagement story that you’ll be asked to repeat for the rest of your life. Make it a good one.

Do not list your Pushcart Prize nomination in your bio. I mean, ever.

Be hot. Things will go easier for you and you’ll get plenty of action.

OR, be good. Be very, very good and you’ll get plenty of action.

Thank your parents. They put you here, even if you don’t like it. Not liking it makes for some good poetry.

Do not have birds on your book cover, mainly because it will annoy me.

Use your real name, you chicken. You are not a rock star. If you want to be a rock star, learn to play an instrument.

Brush your teeth. Nobody likes a poet with four teeth.

Finally, never, ever write poems about being a poet. Publishers don’t like them. Instead, substitute every instance of the word “poet” with “rabbit.”

Then send the poem to me.

Said Friend 1 to me once over merlot at Gioco. I think of this often, like when Friend 2 announces she’s getting married, making me the last of our group not to be.

I think of this when the first dress goes over her head, and Friend 2 looks so beautiful I pause. Discussing details, her groom-to-be turns a little green and she pats his hand smiling.

Friend 1 tells me anyone can be married, have children, own a house, run a business. Why be just anyone she says, when you can be someone?

Friend 1 goes on to say that I’m a peacock while others are pigeons. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pigeon she says. Pigeons are honorable creatures. You’re just a peacock she says. Why do you want to be a pigeon!

I can think of plenty of reasons not to be a peacock I say. What will my mother tell her friends? At parties, small talk stops when people find out what I am. Pigeons are puzzled by peacocks I say.

Let them be puzzled she says. You are a beautiful Indian Blue!

But I’ve lived my whole life among pigeons I say. I don’t know how to live as a peacock. I’m scared of peacocks. I am a pigeon!

Friend 3 tries to solve the problem. You are neither peacock nor pigeon she says, but a combination. Something like a jackalope she says, you’re not one or the other.

What “one” or “the other” was, Friend 3 didn’t say.

Still, the pigeons and I know something’s not right. Am I then a robin among sparrows? Close to passing, with this bright red burning I keep trying to hide.