Why Greg doesn't write poetry
First, go to Slow Children At Play now. Okay, not now, because you might not come back, but soon. Choosing the new Pope with an American Idol format. I kid you not.
Okay, why I don't write poetry. I was cleaning out the garage and the new kid's room this weekend, and found the last poem I ever wrote. I wrote it at our faculty orientation in August of 2003, because our faculty orientation is just so freakin' boring that I was compelled to write poetry. (If you're reading this, faculty orienters, please make it more interesting! For the love of God!) I will now share it with you. Please don't hunt me down and kill me.
An arroyo snakes through the dust,
Beckoning, inviting, enticing
You, making you believe.
Triple-digit temperatures leech
Sweat from skin and strength from muscles.
There is no water in the canteen.
Flame licks calloused and blistered feet
And you stagger past saguaros as
Gila monsters flick tongues at you and
Eyeball you hungrily. Millions
Of pinpricks scatter across arm hairs.
The desert rises up and embraces you.
Somewhere, a fox pins a mouse.
Somewhere, a bat hangs in slumber.
Somewhere, two scorpions face off like gladiators.
Somewhere, Anglos wait in jeeps with rifles.
The sun blazes down on stragglers
Across a Statue-of-Liberty-less
Desolation, where there is no
Welcome for the huddled masses
Yearning to breathe free.
Sure, it's not T.S Eliot, but I don't think it's the worst poetry in the Galaxy, or even the third- or second-worst poetry in the Galaxy. You be the judge! (This is why I write prose. I'm pretty good, I swear!)
Okay, why I don't write poetry. I was cleaning out the garage and the new kid's room this weekend, and found the last poem I ever wrote. I wrote it at our faculty orientation in August of 2003, because our faculty orientation is just so freakin' boring that I was compelled to write poetry. (If you're reading this, faculty orienters, please make it more interesting! For the love of God!) I will now share it with you. Please don't hunt me down and kill me.
An arroyo snakes through the dust,
Beckoning, inviting, enticing
You, making you believe.
Triple-digit temperatures leech
Sweat from skin and strength from muscles.
There is no water in the canteen.
Flame licks calloused and blistered feet
And you stagger past saguaros as
Gila monsters flick tongues at you and
Eyeball you hungrily. Millions
Of pinpricks scatter across arm hairs.
The desert rises up and embraces you.
Somewhere, a fox pins a mouse.
Somewhere, a bat hangs in slumber.
Somewhere, two scorpions face off like gladiators.
Somewhere, Anglos wait in jeeps with rifles.
The sun blazes down on stragglers
Across a Statue-of-Liberty-less
Desolation, where there is no
Welcome for the huddled masses
Yearning to breathe free.
Sure, it's not T.S Eliot, but I don't think it's the worst poetry in the Galaxy, or even the third- or second-worst poetry in the Galaxy. You be the judge! (This is why I write prose. I'm pretty good, I swear!)
posted by Greg | 8:26 PM
2 Comments:
In between college semesters, I did temp work. Since I type approximately 4 words per minute, the temp agency sent me to the local Reebok factory. When I got there, the people in charge told me to start breaking down boxes.
I broke down boxes for two months.
It is fortunate I do not have a mental tape recorder, because I made up the worst songs a human being could possibly conceive, songs that made "MacArthur Park" look like "A Day in the Like."
The best one was probably "Don't Eat My Eyeballs."
(Screamed at top volume:)
"Don't eat my eyeballs, don't eat my eyeballs, don't eat my eyeballs, have some pork and beans."
Boredom does bad, bad things to the brain.
Now that sounds like an awe-inspiring song. Truly. Yes, boredom is bad. This is why I write prose when I'm not bored.
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