--because it really isn't good enough to get such a title. Sort of musing on writer's block in a couple of these. Hope I'm not wasting your time because that would be a damn shame, but I guess I can still sit back on the fact that the blog is located at Sorry for Boring You.
"my worst nightmare"
Prose is an odd thing
where you come in with a thought process
and then these people show up
in my experience
they tell you what
they're going to do.
Vonnegut would have me
play the sadist
and not waste the reader's time
like good things
I tried to write this story
about what I imagined
as the worst thing that could ever happen to me
and then things changed,
and suddenly I really wasn't writing about myself
but someone more interesting
and I couldn't just beat this person
I had created
to a pulp.
I'm a failure when it comes to writing
pretty much anything
that you'll want to read on rainy days
and that's not nearly the only thing
I'm a failure at.
I know these truths to be self-evident.
But four score and seven years from now,
maybe I'll be somewhere proud of something that I did one time.
"Ants and Uncles"
When Carl was in
he spent way too much time
with an hourglass
out in his backyard
burning ants with sunlight.
For some reason
this recurs to him
that summer before going
back to the campus.
This was the year
he really hit it off with that one girl
who went to junior high
with your brother,
this guy, Carl,
we met in a poetry class
and he told me that his uncle
was also named Andy
and he invited me to this show
and this one time we both got so stoned
that we may have been unable to move for up to three hours.
I learned from him
that my anger was not something to be ashamed about
and we didn't Brad Pitt it up under some restaurant somewhere
but we hit walls once in a while,
so I guess I'm trying to say
when I said,
I'm too much of a monster
to be in a relationship with you
that was just the paranoia talking
and I really hope you get this phone message before you screw your psychiatrist.
Staring at a computer screen is so unproductive.
Did you know
that the writer
actually gets most of his ideas
when he's walking around campus
in his tight ass shoes,
You can blame
of inspiration's block--
where his preset
goals for writing
on the fact
that he's not getting out of his house
in three paragraphs or less
what you are.
Plato would have you thrown out of his state
and DeLillo says that the novelist is the bad citizen
so that one's taken.
What are your goals in life?
Your occupation, please,
for it can be easily misunderstood.
Plus what can stop
any old kid
who's broken up with a lover
from putting on sunglasses,
"I'm a poet"?
Good night, folks, have a happy rest-of-the-weekend and try to realize when you are happy. Vonnegut would want us to.