La di da

Screw you Ed. People have lives. You type at a white screen that doesn’t respect you all day just to entertain ungrateful readers who can’t be bothered a simple ‘I read this’ in the comment box. And what the hell is a banger anyway? Are you getting your cues from youtube reaction videos? You get over here off your yellow screen and type something.

I’ll throw some vivid purple at you. I’ve been waiting to empty the color box. I just learned some fonts take up more disk space than others so that in the long run cost more to produce. Have some expensive fontage, Ed.

i’m a squeeqy little mouse

I’m taking over this limpire.

I told you up front I didn’t want to do a poetry blog and you said ‘I know I know Arthur has a plan’ and then you went and assigned me “Edna’s got a balance problem” and I think we did a pretty good job. Now this week after we already killed the last poet and were the first to publish the very last poem for all time, we done killed poetry, Ed, you want me to do a transgendered Emily Dickinson edition instead of turning attention toward what this bloog is supposed to be about and that is Current Events. Remember? That means what’s going on in the world. And that means

I refuse to do any more poeticiding. I am done and gone with this shit. There is a Greenland sized elephant carcass in the room or I should say the room next door because it’s been blocked off and a second exit prepared but you know what I’m driving at so plug your noses. I’m going to plug mine.

I’m going to be a mine plugger. Pluggin mine with a fine little avoidinator and then go whistle on down the dixie with a pastoral scene in black and white with Dorothy. Are you with me? I mean what the heck? We can talk about Emily Dickinson all year while we crush some puddin head with our house then dance around with sproingy munchkins. I’m down, Ed. What do you need from me as Judy Emily or any simile that strikes a blow for every Dorothy?

Unfortunately I don’t really have any more Emily material. I need time.

Okay. Sure.

Pithy Poetics

Look
I wrote a sentence
Isn’t
This sentence
Grand?
It
Might be
The greatest
Sentence
Ever.
Doesn’t this
Sentence
Evoke
Many and varied
Impressions?
Read my sentence again.

2)

my short offering of poets who are professors

Ezra Pound is forcing himself onto my ex wife loosening lederhosen
just like a tenured bavarian pimp who happens to be the dean of l’English
killeth my steed that’s bucked up to the Turks’ ladder leaning
against the Admin Bldg while Hamlet scribbles a Schubert lieder
hosing all the while the marauders with Manet’s pigment for lapus lazuli fight
til death with Picasso, Wallace Stevens, and Marcel Proust engaging sous rature
Jaques Derrida screeds translated from French into German into Russian
and back again into French to discover how much is left for rational
discussion of each rung on the ladder climbing into the recessive
finding of the roof not existing after having been reached by retirement
or death…

Garland Emily

Judy Dickinson

Dorothy Gumm

Transvestite Munchkins

Poetry’s lament

My uselessness is recaptured
through every tap of a finger
causing words to appear on your screen

My scream is useless and tired
and soundless and just letters
and words appearing on a screen

unread or read is all the same
if unread fine if read forgotten
just soundless words and letters on the screen

Go thee now to one poet on the rise
Whose love of Ovid o’errunneth her senses
Ingenio perii, Suzanne poeta, meo
Pricked on the sweet nettle in full color and bloom
Nurtured and studied and drunk
Enraptured words ensue, fused and mused
Full throttled ecstacy appearing on her very screen
She is touching the timeless place where poets breathe
Through Ovid onto Shakespeare and Shelly and Keats
A touching of the infinite keyboard
An eager grab of the mouse she clicks

Send To The World

On the next day
And the next
And the next
Her poem, her existential signal
Her beacon to the unseen and unalive
Her stance in the world of only this
appear as words unseen. fine. seen and forgotten.