Tood Moore

Which,
I suppose, is the answer to the question what is a poem worth. A poem is worth whatever you are willing to pay. Whatever you can put on the table. See, nobody else pays for a poem. Which means, you put up it all up. Pulling a Bukowski is a one in a trillion. Pulling a T. S. Eliot you either have to work in a bank or rob a bank, pulling an Allen Ginsberg, well, you get the picture. This is all about whatever it takes to ante up the way that Tony Moffeit anteed up with BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID, the way that Tom House anteed up with THE WORLD ACCORDING TO WHISKEY, the way that Kell Robertson anteed up with A HORSE CALLED DESPERATION, the way that John Macker anteed up with ADVENTURES IN THE GUNTRADE, the way that Mark Weber anteed up with PLAIN OLD BOOGIE LONG DIVISION, the way Ed Dorn anteed up with GUNSLINGER, the way that Ron Androla anteed up with WHAT TO SAY TO DEATH, the way that S. A. Griffin anteed up with NUMBSKULL SUTRA, the way that Tony Scibella anteed up with THE KID IN AMERICA, the way John Yamrus anteed up with BLUE COLLAR, the way Gary Goude anteed up with A CRUSHED ROTTING DOG, the way Raindog did with ROADKILL. What else can you ante if all you have is poetry and blood?