Wonderfalls

I finally finished watching the "Wonderfalls" series. I have to say, I really enjoyed it. I'm sad i won't get to see more episodes of this pretty fantastic series, but I'm glad they wrapped it up nicely. It felt "finished".

Sweetness

I thought I had been clear about it, but as the details of my unrequited affection have been shared, several of you have revealed your violent sides. Let me be absolutely clear. I do not want any of you to get on a plane, then fly to the city of his residence, disembark from the aircraft, then proceed to his address, then ring one of his neighbors and claim to be delivering a package in order to get buzzed into the apartment building, then steal up the one flight of stairs to his apartment, kick his door in and serve him that most filling of delicacies: a knuckle sandwich. That is exactly the type of thing that you cannot do. Mary, I am looking at you. That's right, I used your name. What are you going to do about it?

If something is truly yours and you let it go, then it will come back to you, unless it suffers a debilitating fall down its apartment stairs that knocks it unconscious and suffers several broken ribs, almost as if it had been kicked repeatedly. Then it will not come back to you. It will stay away and rue the day it turned its back on you.

As a consolation to using her name I'm going to print a poem here by a Mary, who may or may not be the same Mary although really how many Mary's can one person know?

this is just to say

by mary mary mary

I have finally

defrosted in my

home that is like

the icebox

and from which

you were probably

thinking

you'd never hear from me again

Forgive me

I'm soaking in the sun that is

so sweet

and so warm.

I think the thing I like best about this submission is that it varies so little from the original. I think Mr. Williams was a true poet, but if a truer poet came along could she not speak more directly to our souls, by changing just one word in Mr. Williams' poem? Could she change the meaning altogether? I think Mary has done a fine job here saying something completely different while retaining at least a line from every stanza. Yes, I think we can all marvel at this accomplishment.

However, I do not want this glint of praise to go to anyone's head. You can't seek it out. That action cheapens it. Let me describe another situation to show you what I mean. Imagine, and I know this will be hard to do, since it is so terribly unlike me, it may actually help to substitute someone else for me in the following scenario, but imagine if you will that I contacted you in the middle of your day when you least needed to be bothered and fished in a round about way for feedback and compliments on my postings here. Wouldn't you weep for me? You would cry the soft, giant tears of someone trying not to cry, but unable to stop themselves, because the person in this scenario would be truly pathetic, like the people you see at the mall going into Old Navy.

What a relief it must be to know I would never do that. I don't even like going to a shopping center if I know there is an Old Navy there.

Doubleshot

The only thing exceeding the number of submissions in my inbox is the number of requests to hear so-and-so's poem. Unfortunately as with any contest, especially one with so desirable a prize, the runners-up (runner-ups?) are destined to be forgotten in time, and I think it best I not share them with you at all. Instead I'll continue sharing some oddities with you.

There was a glaring hole on my authors list from one normally well regarded for her creativity. I dared not inquire, lest she merely be polishing a certain winner, but finally I noticed a submission from her substantially lesser fifth--he can't be half--hidden well by his name choice which offers some perplexing explanation.

this is just to say

by gregander lapope

my wife will not

be participating

in your little

contest

it is beneath her

and she has

womanly duties

to perform

forgive me

or not

I don't

care

I'm sure you're as shocked as I am at this, but ultimately, I'm just glad he didn't compose a lengthy satirical allegory which would have been tedious, at best, to read. I'll make a direct appeal: break the chains of your imprisonment, if but for a minute.

I'd dwell on it a little more, but I actually have a more pressing issue. After so recently feeling the pain of a broken heart, its difficult for me to see the many submissions of past suitors hoping to rekindle fires never ignited. I implore you, sirs, if I have granted you no attention, I am not playing coy; leave me be. Here is an example submission:

this is just to say

by name redacted (but we'll call him boudreaux)

I never thought

myself worthy

of a girl

so perfect

was I wrong

to see desire

in the face you

favored me?

forgive me

that look

that dream

will not fade

I wonder how dismissive I would have been in a previous time. Oh, certainly, I won't be speaking with this individual, I was fair and direct months ago, so I owe him no explanation. But what hope is there for him? What release can he find from his persistent dream? What words do I want to hear, that I might share with him, that might grant us that release? This is the conundrum of language. Even if there are the right words, we are not likely to know them. But right words or not, saying something is better than nothing.

This is the story of Petrarch, to know love like a furious summer storm, but to know that feeling is not real, and will not be returned. Life is not a fairy tale and the boy does not get the girl. So, to all the men holding out hope against hope, I'm just not into you. Please stop trying to contact me

Yes, Virginia, there are crappy poems

Some of the haughty amongst you have wondered if perhaps the quality of the poems posted here is in some way indicative of an overall poor quality of poems passing through the selection committee. I can only tell you, that you have no idea. Some people seem to have replaced their morning crossword with poem creation and their multiple submissions are coming not unlike an especially poorly acted Paul Walker movie, which is to say, Fast and Furious. Some of you don't even seem to care, not even letting the poetry speak to your soul. Take this submission:

this is just to say

by carrie riché riché

I could not

come up with

a suitable

topic

so this

stanza is just

a placeholder

before the end

forgive me

my creativity

is sapped

by drudgery

In the first place, I don't think that's even her real name, and if its not she totally screwed up the name pattern anyway. In the second place, the second stanza talks specifically about itself which is totally against all rules having to do with poetry. You can't make self referential poetry. Everybody knows that. This type of lackadaisical submission only makes me angry. It is the equivalent of a paperweight gift. If you refuse to put any thought into it at all. Then don't bother.

But before I scare you off, ask yourself when the last time was that you wrote a poem? I thought so. What about jumping for joy? Attempting a cartwheel? You don't even know.

More Friendly Competition

What is friendly about any competition? It seems to be a general agreement over some arbitrary rules, but science tells us that there is only one competition for men, and that is the biological imperative to pass along his genes. The closest a man will ever come to being immortal is when he has a son. I don't really believe that, but I believe there is something in men that they themselves do not understand. So when men talk of friendly competition they are usually talking about the view in the glare of public lights because let me tell you that in my experience, behind the scenes, they will slit each others throats.

this is just to say
by chad obi chad

i have not
returned the dvd's
that you loaned to me
over a year ago

do you
think i
could not
know?

forgive me
the geek council is unable to decide
if it is acceptable for a hot chick to own
firefly

If you are wondering if unabashed flattery is an effective way to get your poem featured here, then let me be the first to say, I forward these things to a committee who use a very complicated and proven selection process before I even read them, which I may or may not even do, so I wouldn't describe it so much as an asset to your poem as a veritable requirement, especially if your submission is merely the latest salvo in an ongoing game of brinksmanship to flood the internet with your musings.

Another good doctor

Of course, william carlos williams' primary occupation was physician. I do not think he was a very good one. If his poetry was any indication, he must have been truly terrible. I feel strongly that a true poet can only be a true poet and nothing else. It probably also didn't help that he was a raving communist.

There have been numerous inquiries into my little contest. Yes, there will be prizes, although the pleasure of having me read your creations should be enough of a prize, although I probably won't actually be reading your submissions. I'm much to busy to do that. I'll delegate responsibility to a committee, and I'll read whatever submissions they feel are worth my time. I probably won't read those either, though. I'm very busy. For all you know I'm too busy to be writing this. I may have delegated it to someone else, and really would you know the difference? Probably you wouldn't get the same feeling of warmth within you that sustains and nourishes you. Probably you would struggle to rise from your beds knowing that I was not an integral part of your lives. Yet you rise and smile and laugh and life is good, so you may take comfort that it is I.

And now that that's settled beyond argument, I'd like to pass along a submission, fittingly enough from a good doctor. Now, he is a good physician, so please do not judge him too harshly for his poetry.

This is just to say

by lara diego lara

I have not joined

the facebook

that is on the

internet

and which

you keep insisting

i join to increase

your friends count

forgive me

it is creepy

and i am a

father

Well, I can't say it speaks to my soul, but it does have a certain understated quality to it. At the very least there are no knives.

Mistakes Were Made

I don't know if I'm getting the whole gist of it, but a rather bookish friend of mine called me up on his way to examine what he claimed was an extremely rare stamp collection to say someone is playing a prank of sorts on me. Obviously, he doesn't know who the someone is, or what the back story might be, but the person might assume I listen to This American Life and in particular, this episode. I couldn't possibly listen to the whole thing. Hearing an obvious fool talk about freezing dead bodies for the majority of the show is a little bit more than a person of my sensibilities can bear, but if you can somehow tune it all out but perk up your ears when you hear Feist, you'll hear about the poem and the actual great American poet:

this is just to say

by william carlos williams

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

And what they did was, several contributors wrote and recited their own version of the poem which is supposed to be funny in some way, but is really kind of sad, I think. So it is that perfect combination of life that we could really use a quaint little word for and which some nation on earth probably has, though it wouldn't be the Germans despite their affinity for words, because they have terrible senses of humor. Or perhaps, terrible sense of humors.  I don't see how a knife is anything like a plum, but I am not an English major.

Anyway, at the very least, I did think it was an idea. Its an idea that I'm happy to take submissions on. If you'd like to show off your poetry chops, I'd love to see submissions of your own versions from all of you warming up the writing skills you've let fade and lie dormant while the slavery of work crushes your soul and very will to live. At the very least, if you're too afraid to have it published here, I encourage each of you to write a short poem for your lover. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be sweet. And if being sweet is not enough, then it may be you are with the wrong person.

A poem

These great American poets are so obtuse. What are they trying to say anyway? Someone sent me this today, and I can't really follow it:

this is just to say

by carlos williams carlos

at this point

self disembowelment

seems a perfectly

legitimate option

you probably

have no idea

that it hurts

this badly

forgive me

the knife feels

so sweet

and so cold

Life 2: The Unhappy Ending

A few of the Apple fanboys in my audience, hesitant to disturb me in my period of mourning, have been unable to contain themselves, so I may as well confess here since it was announced today, that yes, I do have an iPhone 3G. As usual, Stephen wouldn't dream of putting a product out without incorporating my feedback. I know many of you have not even yet made the proper life altering choice of possessing an iPhone 1.0, so any review I have to share is a bit like reviewing a calculator for people who don't know how to count, isn't it? No, no, I'm not saying you can't count. Of course you can. Don't be silly.

Personally, I can barely get past Stephen insisting on a 'v.' Really, the world is being changed by a Steve? I shudder just to see it in print by my own hand. Lets do everyone with any sensibilities at all a favor and refer to you exclusively as Stephen. Just be glad I'm not insisting on Stefan. Maybe you feel its too late to change, or that it will appear a bit too nouveau riche. Darling, you're a billionaire. Just change it. No one will think any worse of you.

As for the 'threeg' as the engineers have taken to calling it, I'd say the most disappointing thing is the plastic back. Of course, I had them make a metal back especially for me. Also, 3G isn't so great. Twice as fast as slow as shit is still pretty slow.

The applications are nice, but I really don't know what will be made available to the public. Of course I enjoy some most favored evaluator status, or however Stephen puts it, so I'm fairly certain the applications I'm using are being written exclusively for me. I'm sure most people will be eager for the TomTom software, but the ThomasThomas I use with priority traffic routing and exclusive points of interest can hardly be made available to everyone, or else those features are somewhat meaningless, aren't they?

Well, as sweet as Stephen's threeg is, it can't take away my heartache. So, what good is it at all?

Today Will Be Better, I Swear!

Of course there has been an outpouring of support following my little confessional. Many of you have offered whatever I might need to soothe my injured heart. Others have been simply stunned into abject silence. Its as though I were Hillary and had decided to surrender the nomination despite winning all the important states and possessing an insurmountable popular vote lead. But that's not how elections work is it? Or romance either, for that matter.

Others have been simply indignant, demanding details, offering to kill who I hate. Well, first of all, I couldn't possibly hate anyone. My heart is so big and pure I have only love for all the mortal creatures that populate this anomalous orb for this brief instant. Can a person love another person so much that it crushes him to death, or at the very least makes him feel all the horrible things a person should never have to feel, but she does anyway completely outside of her control? Science will never be able to answer that question, but I'd just like to say in advance, in case it happens to be true, that it was all love, I swear.

At the very least this whole experience has taught me that despite my tested and proven intelligence and virtually flawless insight into people in general there is one incomparably complicated individual whom I do not fully understand: myself. How is it possible to fall so hard? To be strolling confidently though life, only to discover there may be great chasms lying in wait to consume one wholly and completely? And if life is so perilous why does it feel like it helps at all to type open ended questions onto a public website where anyone might read them but not offer any real solutions?

The Beginning After the End Stars

Well, here we are three months later and my previously perfect prognostications seem certain to take a black eye to an otherwise stellar record as Hillary is reported to be withdrawing from the race tomorrow. I suppose it will be months before we know if there is indeed some damning story Hillary refrained from using and if the Republican machinery has their wretched claws on it, but at this point it seems ridiculous, even to me, to suggest that the Republicans, while loathsome, are any more nefarious than Hillary. Is there honor amongst thieves, and what is this honor anyway? I think men believe themselves to be good and honest, but ideals, and goals, and institutions allow them to forget. 

I've been so silent, but I think at last I'm ready to say a little. To be perfectly honest, I need the catharsis. Oh, I was busy at work, and life and all the things one does while time marches inexorably on, and then, quite inexplicably, I was lovestruck. The most depressing thing about the whole ordeal is that I don't even believe in love! Yes! Exclamation points! I can hardly believe it myself.

I can't explain it in anyway. He was completely wrong for me in every single possible way, far too many to enumerate. Nevermind that he's not of noble birth or fabulously wealthy or any of those other qualities one might assume a man must possess to merit my attention. But in all the ways I know nothing about, I imagined he was exactly perfect for me. It all seems so trite, but I'm reminded of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry is made to feel emotion and while crying wonders what the salty wet discharge from his eyes was. I felt exactly that way. Is this love? This? I do not want any part of it. Well, the after effects anyway. Perhaps the reason I liked him so was exactly the reason he had no idea how much I liked him. I hung on his every word and movement and at first he seemed to enjoy it a little bit, but quickly seemed to be totally oblivious, leaving me a mute mess.

And now, I have this utter feeling of emptiness. I can't even ride a bike properly. Please don't write in about my injury. Its the least of my worries. I couldn't eat. I was always a dainty eater, but these few days I've eaten nothing. Whatever this feeling is, its grabbed a hold of my middle and squeezed tighter than I can bear. I didn't even know what it was. I actually went to see a doctor to complain of my persistent nausea, and that nothing over the counter helped in the least. She asked about my job and possible stress there, and when I told her I could care less, she slyly smiled, and asked, "So what's his name?" Twenty Eight years old, and I'm feeling this for the first time. At least when I didn't know, I could sleep. Now I can't. I guess it turns out I'm not anything like the person I thought I was. It is pathetic.

I used to think he was exactly like a character in a book I read, but of course, I was not in the book. Now I think maybe I was lunch.

Oh, the blood and the treasure and the losing it all, the time that we wasted and the place where we fall. Will we wake in the morning and know what it was for, up in our bedroom, after the war?