I spit in the face of coherency in writing! I am a rebel!
If I wanted to, I could have the hugest penis you have ever laid eyes on. It could be gigantic.Not a day goes by when I don’t get an offer to enlarge it.Why would you want an enormous six foot King Kong ding dong? I would not. This is not only because I am five feet tall. It’s also because I don’t like to carry things, and it would slow me down. I’m speedy fast, like a hyper-caffeinated mosquito.
You know that poet Shelley? He was quite the progressive dude. At eighteen he was kicked out of Oxford for writing a paper called “The Necessity of Atheism”. He was also a champion of free love. All that in the 1800’s.
Would that I could
My penis much enlargèd
Would the ladies gamely flock
to see my engorgèd cock
and take into stock
such pleasures to unlock
even the most clenchèd personality?
Nay, such posh and pish
They would still laugh at my name, Byshhe
But, by heavens, when perchance they fish
In my pants, no greater dish,
to tempt them into murky immorality.
And when one is beset
By women all preset
to feast on a large, well-doughed baguette
With chivalry most grand I abet;
What compliments more than a seafood specialty?
If only I had sturgeon rather than anchovy
They’d treat me like a trophy
And I like Neptune in a pool
Couldst hook not one fish, but the whole school.
If you would like a real poem, here’s a great one by Sherman Alexie:
Damn, he’s good. I am reading a poetry anthology, and so many of the selections are just blowing me away. I used to hate poetry, because what the hell was it talking about anyway? Now I realize that there is so much out there to love, and I am learning how to appreciate all kinds of diverse people and perspectives. I even know some poets, and I think they are great. Inspiring, I tell you!
I watched documentaries all night instead of doing my grading, but still, I’m no smarter.
The other day one of my colleagues burst into the classroom. Apropos of zero, she said, “Yeah, so I had morning sex, and now I’m all frazzled.”
I said, “Well congratulations! That’s terrific! Good for you! Why are you frazzled?”
Another teacher said, “Oh my gawd! You’ve got to be kidding! Where did you find the time? Weren’t you afraid the kids would walk in?”
The third teacher was the oldest in the group. She has been married for forty-one years. “Whaddaya want,” she asked without looking up from her papers. “A parade?”
The night before last I had terrible nightmares. I kept waking upset from the dreams, but also that those dreams had come from my head. Who knew I was deranged and scary? Getting to know the real me is such a profound disappointment. Anyway, last night there was redemption, because all night long, I was building a meaningful dream relationship with John Stamos, and now I think I’m fallin’ for him – HARD! I mean, he was cool when he was Uncle Jesse and all, but when you really get to know him, he’s even better! I think this time it might be for reals, yo! I hope I see him tonight.
Suddenly I feel like going to bed right this very second. I leave you with a poem I wrote about one of those inspiring poets I know.
Advice of the Poet Laureate
The advice of the Poet Laureate on reading in front of others:
If you get nervous, read more loudly. The louder your voice, the less it quivers. You have something to say. It is important and deserves to be heard. Remember that.
No matter how slowly you think you are reading, read more slowly. People need time and space to understand what you are saying. They need to hang on your words as they float into the air, pulling your images down onto their brains where they can examine them closely. People don’t get it if you move too fast.
Don’t be afraid! Reading your words, connecting others to your ideas, sharing your life – that’s the beauty of poetry! This is the fun part!
Later she perused the buffet at the reception. When she found a crystal bowl of fruit, her eyes lit up, and she came back to the table with a perfect little Clementine, cupped in her palm like the sun in a cloud.
The Poet Laureate took a spray bottle of sanitizer from her purse and doused the orange peel of the Clementine. I imagined the rosy skin bruising, yellow, green and purple.
She noticed me staring, pupils like the dot that underscores the question mark.
“I’m going through chemo,” she said quickly. “Can’t have fresh fruit. There might be bacteria, pesticides….this is ok, though. The Clementine is safe in its skin.”
I had to lean in to hear her. I almost missed it.