Longfellow I am not
Poetry is to me what waffles are to him. Often toasted and covered in a sticky substance sprung from a New Hampshire deciduous. The very trees that poets flock to see when the leaves turn gold and red and fill their poetic minds with words of beauty and eloquence. Poets are dreamers, death squads are realists. Poetry is the great farce of modern time. What is poetry? It’s the cerebral vomit of modern man. And beware the poet that says “I wrote this piece in five minutes” and it’s full of words most college graduates can neither pronounce nor enunciate. And beware the author who begins sentences with a preposition. I write poetry. I write poetry when I’m drunk and it’s not the beautiful flowing existential poetry that requires a half hour of deep thinking and a thesaurus. No it’s the true poetry that requires much deep thinking the next morning along with a Tylenol or two. My poetry is neither aesthetic nor deep. It’s the “jump off the bridge’ poetry rather than the “come give me a hug and a tissue because I just discovered myself through these cleverly arranged nouns, pronouns, verbs and adjectives” poetry. What is poetic justice? Nothing rhymes with justice.
When god created man he was forced to create woman in order for the species to propagate. It all went downhill from there. From the time women discovered men were always trying to stick a penis in them and then when they did they spent nine months trying to shoot a bowling ball through surgical tubing they have been pissed off. For centuries men have been trying to figure out women and since they are like the oceans, deep, mysterious and covering three-fourths of the planet, it can be overwhelming at times. So god invented sports. Then god invented cable. Then god invented texting. This was so men could escape the wrath. But previously and in a moment of haste god had invented the exclamation point. There is no escape. It’s amusing that we always make animated movies involving talking animals that evolved with no vocal chords. Man has long desired to understand what animals are thinking and how wonderful it would be if we could talk to animals. I really don’t want to speak to birds, the idiots of the natural world. Why is it that evil animals have a British accent? The answer is simple, evil animals all attended Cambridge, where non-British accent animals attended public schools in Oakland. If all evil things in the world attended Cambridge why are the prisons so full? So there you have it, crime does not pay, and therefore a college education does not pay, except on the plains of Africa where the public schools always prevail. But then again how many animals on the Serengeti were involved in Ponsi schemes? I would say Jackals; Jackals are the Bernie Madoffs of the African frontier. Coincidentally I explained Darwin to my daughter last night. I told her it was a city in the middle of nowhere that people with no money go to vacation so they can smoke pot and poke around the mangroves not realizing there is a twenty-foot long salt water crocodile eyeing them.
In the simplest of terms I had just described natural selection to a twelve year old.
Goodnight to you all.
Goodnight to you Jenny
