I’ve been thinking a lot about how impossible things can sometimes happen.
Good morning, and welcome to another edition of Hunky Hump Day. Cyn’s birthday is actually tomorrow, but, hey, any excuse that might lure her back into the fold, and it makes for an easy theme.
Let’s see, we need a sharp-dressed man (sort of).
I got banged up in :laguna beach this night.
Please to pardon my foolish phantasms.
Just my luck
Tired, sore, typing sucks. Going to go read.
Monochrome and veiny.
I think it was lauraw who recently remarked that poetry was “queer.” She might have said “gay” or “flaming.” The exact words don’t matter all that much–the fact of the matter is that poetry has long been seen–and rightly so–as the province of mincing, lisping sissyboys. I mean, just check out this photo of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound:
“A bang AND a whimper, am I right, Tommy?”
“Oh, shut up and Pound me, Ezra!”
Well, that got me to thinking about what could be done to make poetry a more manly art. And it wasn’t long until I was sidetracked by the thought of railing your mom. Because, truth be told, all this poetic thinking had me feeling a little funny. Then–EUREKA!–the thought struck me like a thunderbolt: Let’s put the peanut butter of your mom in the chocolate of poetry and see if those two great tastes go great together. Probably not, but this is what I came up with anyway… Continue reading