Tuesday, November 22, 2011

a million brilliant pieces.

i am honestly blogging because my fingers need to type something.

what my fingers will type, i have no idea. now that i'm typing, i'm realizing that i really need to cut my fingernails, and this is why i have been failing at trying to learn to play the guitar.

i also feel the need to openly admit that i am listening to eminem. i am thoroughly ashamed with myself. mostly because in terms of music, i am the ultimate hipster.

you go, the new pornographers, frightened rabbit, the head and the heart, and the national!

so anyway. i have absolutely no idea what this blog will be about. we'll see what comes out of my fingers.

that's a really odd phrase. seeing what comes out of my fingers.

i used something close to that when i talked to dr. vivian about my poetry. i was sitting in his office wearing a really nice cardigan and one of my better hair bows and i had my legs crossed and he was asking me something, and i said something like, "oh i don't spend long writing poems. my pens just kind of vomit them."

i could probably write a poem about that. i'm surprised that i haven't.

(HEY LOOK, MY BLOG IS ABOUT POETRY! i'm as surprised as you.)

dr. vivian's office is really magnificent. the most magnificent place i've been to (but i haven't really because it's not real) is The Office of Possibilities of Opportunities, and dr. vivian's office is pretty close to it. it has all these awesome pictures that students have had in the art show (by the way, there's a nude sketch of my brother in the library art display downstairs) and all kinds of books about poetry and life. and his door is always open, even when he's not there. one day, if i ever decide to become a criminal, i'm going to walk right in there and take a paper weight. or a book.

i don't think i'll ever decide to become a criminal. so for now, his paper weights are safe.

so every time dr. vivian reads one of my poems, he writes all over it in his handwriting. this means that my boyfriend, who has handwriting almost as bad, has to take a magnifying glass and we have to scour it under fluorescent lights. it really is a process. then there's absolutely no criticism, only things like, "nice metaphor, what does this mean?" when i have absolutely no idea what i'm doing and need criticism. writing poetry isn't really a process, at least not for me, because my pen just vomits poems up.

before he got me to try dramatic monologues (those are really fun, let me tell you), he arranged this meeting with me about my poetry in which we sat around and discussed how my pen vomits things. he told me very kindly that nobody is supposed to understand their own poetry. i thought about how much my feet smelled.

well gee. I DON'T UNDERSTAND ANY OF IT.

the other day, while he was lecturing about one-act plays, my pen vomited up this in the back of my notebook:



or
    din
          ar
               Y

                        going once twice (sold!)

to the man with the extraordinary sun
(who alone knows)

                        for the price of seventeen cents.


and then, the other day when i had a migraine:

stacks of shelves
            stacked with books
walk sleepily
                        down that never ending road to

            we are studious
we are studious
                        we are studious.

and finally, after i watched monsters inc. :

 screams
                        high
                                                piercing


invisible in the white
            cutting through the roaring wind
   (they cut so easily)


the monsters come

small
            large
                        scaly
                                    furry
not hungry just the screaming

   to terrorize children.


children sleep
            the closet door closed
    but knowing, yes knowing
            the knob will turn as silently as a toy firetruck
                        and then the monster will come


spiked
            smooth

leviathan
            miniscule


never hungry, always the screaming

                        to terrorize children.

they come
            they come

they come.


i am now officially afraid of my closet, my mind, and my pen. i am now also officially afraid that some of my poetry is out on the internet to anyone interested in reading my blog. oh jeez.

poetry is not what i want to do with my life. poetry is something that happens when i'm not paying attention, and when i'm paying too much attention. and suddenly i have this english professor telling me that submitting to journals, literary journals, is something that i absolutely have to look into, that i have this gift, and all kinds of things like that.

um, excuse me, what?

i just want to be a spanish teacher and blog and go to my classes and be a resident assistant. and when my pen vomits up something weird, well. i suppose it can vomit up weirdness.

and goshdarnit, i just want to understand my poetry.

i've given up on that. the more poems i write, the weirder they are, and the only thing that i can conclusively conclude is that it's poetry and that i space my poems very oddly. and i can tell you that the monster poem is definitely about monsters inc.

think about it. the idea of monsters scaring children is somewhat terrifying. even if pixar made it happy. 

"we'll dig a tunnel using mostly spoons and release it into the wild!"

i love you, mike wazowski.

so this blog turned out to be about poetry. maybe. i will leave you with another poem and i will probably hate this blog post for the rest of my life.

one of these days
                                                my head will explode
into a million brilliant pieces

and you will open your mouth and say


“yes.” 

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