Anselm Berrigan interlocutes an eloquent statement to an offscreen partner regarding his own particular refusenik status pertaining perhaps to poetry or perhaps to angelism scornforkery. Hard to tell but all the same, it's worth a read and holds the reader save for a bit of clumsy shirk-quirkspew in the middle. Perhaps he is not the most boring poet alive afterall.

http://peacockonlinereview.com/poems/july10/anselm_berrigan.pdf