Rob

More crap

I've moved into a house, it is pretty god damned dirty, however I cleaned the shit out of my room and have an airpurifier. My mom smelled an abundance of smoke on my clothes, this is probably because of indoor smoking at most of the places I have stayed. My room has like 15 Nintendo Power posters, and only 2 of the games are for the NES. I think my mom threw away a lot of the older Nintendo Powers, ones that might contain like "Super C" or "Ninja Gaiden" posters. I do have Mega Man X/X2 posters, and as we all know, X2 is probably the best game of all time, outside of FF7, which I am currently replaying, kind of sort of. Only 6 hours into it, and i'm not visiting any item shops (going through the swamp without buying greens is easy if you know what you are doing...) and I'm at Cosmo Canyon. We'll see how far I get.

Apparently Matthew Stafford looks better then anyone has ever looked ever. I bet he ends up throwing 22 INT's and 17 TD's...11 of them to Calvin. Louis Delmas seems like the real deal, and he is the special teams leader already, which means Jimmy and Gunther love his raw ability. Hopefully him and Daniel Bullocks can be a fearsome tandom at Safety.

They say that when one is reading literature or watching a movie that we fill in the natural gaps that the author left with our own crazy ideas of how the authors reality actually works. That means that no one views a single poem or, anything, the same, regardless of how close you are to another person. It is especially important to realize this in the classroom setting, especially amongst people who have far different values then the vast majority of students. Typically, young aspiring poets are just weird enough to accept almost anything, and it isn’t as if anyone knows the true meaning of anything, as the author often can’t comprehend what the writing actually means, even with a lot of time to think about it.

I really, really like the way that Dickinson explained her artwork as a circumference, I think it makes sense. You have to know/write about everything to be a good poet, or writer in general, and in order do that, you must walk the line from extreme A to extreme B to even extreme C-Z, looping around again. However, I feel that one must not just stick to one circle of circumference. Sometimes you have to jump off the sphere and into a rectangular prism for a while to give yourself a new prospective. I may limit myself in writing because I think of myself as one who writes about things that are neglected from writing. This is good most of the time, but as previously stated, limiting yourself to one plane of existence through writing is just silly, so why do I do it? Why not just write about typical things, like flowers or starry nights? I don’t know the answer to that, but I am working on it. I suppose it just goes back to my nature in finding joy in the ignored.

The question “Why do you write?” is one that should be outlawed. No one knows the exact reason why, and if it isn’t because they get paid, enjoy it or are really good at it (as Flannery O’Connor expresses), then boredom or eulogies also exist as equally okay. Practicing writing can make you better, just as practicing basketball helps you play basketball. Now, I agree that reading helps you become a better writer, but it is in the same way that practicing basketball helps you play football. It may help your hand-eye coordination and your footwork, but until you actually put on some pads and try to hit someone, it is impossible to mentally simulate the game of football. Therefore, read read read read all you want, but unless you are writing, you will not improve upon more then things like vocabulary or general knowledge of thing. For example, I just learned that poems written while walking at dawn are called aubades from this reading assignment. That doesn't do shit for being able to write them.

I truly enjoyed the poem Intro to Poetry by Steven Bauer because I feel it also does a great job explaining poetry in poem form. The beginning two lines really got me into it. I had never really thought about it before, but I agree that poetry is more the relation of time and speed them math (isn’t that really physics?) for me. When we are reading poetry and we feel a tingle inside, it is often the sensation of questioning the relevance to our own frame of mind. I don’t think there is a greater delight then reading along and feeling that your life is the one being described, though missing the minor details.

That all being said, here is more crap.

Vile, off left, way too cool

My ex-best-friend Dan Wilk did something so vile
That I had to leave for the bathroom to
Wash the cheese stains to the left
Of my chest pocket. Some people have a way;
It’s just extraordinary how they believe they appear cool
In the eyes of others, especially when their predictions are as off

As a light switch completely locked into the off
Position. Low, almost like someone stealing your entire vile
Of prescription pain pills and snorting them at a cool,
Dry local right after you had shoulder surgery. Too
Much is made out of dirty language. Fuck that shit away
From your brain, that is nothing compared to what’s left

Of my story in the bad deeds department. Right after I left
To order US soda pop, Dan Wilk picked a roach off
The floor. This thing must have been king, it would weigh
Out to be at least nineteen ounces. It looked like the villain “Vile”
From Power Rangers season number two,
I believe. He placed that roach into my cool

Brand new jean-jacket pocket, front again. “Is it cool
If I got diet, dude? It was cheaper and I only have four dollars left
And we need catch the bus sometime before the game at 2:00.”
While I was jawing and seating myself, the roach fell off
Of my fucking shirt, into my bag of chips, without my noticing. Vile
creatures roaches are, but boy do they munch well, better even then the way

Chips munch. So much better, that I knew to spit out my bite in a way
Of utmost ultra haste, like a speeding bobsled from Cool
Runnings, the movie on the TV in the background. The vileness
From the roach head I spewed out had already left
Dan in stitches as his face grew even more red off
My misfortune he had caused, as my bite had split the roach in two.

“What the fuck? How the hell did a roach get into
That bag of chips! Seriously, how in the hell did it find its way
In it?” Dan confessed his sin, and said that he “almost got off”
From the joy as he watched it transpire. He thought he was SO cool;
I let him know what I thought of his jerk behavior, so I left
Dan and sat by myself as I pondered what I should do about the fury I had, the vile

Thoughts consuming me. To him, he thought he was so cool,
I thought he had no decency left, and right away
I was correct. He went on the offensive and threw cheese sauce at me. Just so Vile.

Cardinal Crown Crow

Blackouts surround
Some bad cluck
Slashing through the willows
A fowl moldy aroma
Protrudes like uneven pavement
As the moon beams translucent
To the failing shade
Nobel these gases are not
Disturbed insomniac
Suffering from
Nocturnal nightmares
Stalks the
Metamorphosis
Like a jaded cocoon
Slipping away
Amongst chivalry and freedom
To rediscover cynicism and ennui
The solo cardinal devours
The branch of notorious delight
With a chirp
A peck
Decay the interior
Psyche meltdown eminent
A black hole downward spiral
Into the vortex of unknown
Slit into the cerebrum
God guard Id
Siphon latent heat
As if survival couldn’t wait
Past 3 am
Envelop the azure nevermore
Caw caw caw
Leave at once!

Love, Rob

Posted by rob at June 3, 2009 2:43 AM