Charles Bernstein and the Self-Righteousness of Not Making Sense

I'm unsure what critics, either real or imagined, continually hassle Charles Bernstein in his cosseted perch at Penn such that he feels it necessary to repetitively produce self-justifying monologues in smug and sneering tones like the one just published in Harper's Magazine (print only) but mostly I think he just needs to get over himself. He's not that funny. And poetry that doesn't make sense is not revolutionary; it's boring.