We take ourselves too seriously. Or at least I do. I often wonder in my own work if there’s subject matter that I can't write about. I don’t mean this in the sense of some sort of fidelity to those things I hold sacred, secrets of self, my deepest and darkest: a current relationship, a dead brother, how many times I masturbate. In fact, ask those closest to me—they’ve all been sold out through my modes of confession. But rather, I wonder about writing the everyday—if there are things that just can’t make themselves into a poem because they are too non-poetic, whatever that may mean and however it may be defined. If I make an offhand reference to a Ween song, reddit, or how much a bag of Cheetos is, are these things too commonplace, subject matters that don’t lend themselves to our high art? Part of me still fantasizes that I’ll make it into a Norton centuries after my death. Do I really want the editors to extensively footnote Frosted Flakes? And I further ask myself, is there anything pretty about Frosted Flakes? The answer, Joshua Ware reminds me this week, is that of course there is.