it figures that the second i wrote that the 2nd grade punks were shaping up, they all started sharpening their tiny fangs, hissing, spitting, cursing, writing nasty notes, making animal noises, blowing imaginary trumpets (loud), plugging their ears, and growling.
aw well. 1 step forward. 10 steps back. it's all part of my master plan.
i came home and read this poem. and felt better.
thanks anna maria for pointing me in the direction of charles simic. he's a wonderfully strange person. and everyone knows i love the weirdo poets the best of all. my bretheren.
My Turn To Confess
A dog trying to write a poem on why he barks,
That's me, dear reader!
They were about to kick me out of the library
But I warned them,
My master is invisible and all-powerful.
Still, they kept dragging me out by the tail.
In the park the birds spoke freely of their own vexations.
On a bench, I saw an old woman
Cutting her white curly hair with imaginary scissors
While staring into a small pocket mirror.
I didn't say anything then,
But that night I lay slumped on the floor,
Chewing on a pencil,
Sighing from time to time,
Growling, too, at something out there
I could not bring myself to name.
by Charles Simic
oh and also. i made arrangements to skip town the second my winter vacation starts. going here: