In our first post back in business, I mentioned that I tried and failed to return to college at age 43.
There are, in fact, several things wrong with that declaration.
1) We all know that I am only 33 years old.
2) Statements of my failure have been greatly exaggerated.
Okay, so two issues does not "several" make. They're two biggies, dammit.
As a result of my NOT failing to re-enroll at the "Harvard of Lauderdale County" and after struggling mightily against an evil department chair and successfully gaining admittance into the Professional Writing Program I now find myself, for the first time in the history of my own personal ever...writing poetry.
God help me, I hate poetry.
Call me a Philistine, a heathen, a Midwesterner...I. Hate. Poetry.
I hate poetry for the same reason I hate 'brilliant literature' - it just tries too damn hard.
The best poetry is simple:
The once was a man from Nantucket.
Cookie-Cookie-Cookie-Cook. (thanks, Mel!)
I never saw a purple cow....
But poets - who I believe suffer from a collective case of short man syndrome - insist on making obscure references to Visigoths and ankhs and chalices in poems about dogs and trees and taking out the trash. It's like they can't help breaking out $5 words at every possible opportunity.
So here I sit, charged with writing a poem for class on Wednesday.
And I have NO idea what to write about.
Maybe I can write about blogs.
There once was a blogger from 'bama
Who did her best work in her 'jammas
A filthy limerick she created
But her damn blog host was R rated
So instead she droned on about...llamas
I have a LOT of flippin' poetry to write over the next few weeks. If you'd like to lend a hand and offer up subject suggestions, please leave them in the lovely little comment box.
Or, as Rick James would have said if he hadn't died of Jheri Curl poisoning a decade before the proliferation of The Interwebz:
"Poem me, bitches!"