It's National Poetry Day and I could, for lack of a better term, "wax poetic" on our beautiful, sexy, soulful language. (For those that know how to use it.) I get a twisted kick out of smithing words that (at the very least) make me laugh, cry, and feel. Mostly laugh. Sometimes I just can't even believe my brain, getting all hilarious and cracking myself up. Egocentric? Perhaps. Geishanistas are human too.
As far back as I can remember (actually it was seventh grade with "Sister Wimpy Wart Walk" -- her real name was Winifred, like "The Jungle Book" elephant -- no joke), I was extremely conscious of the importance of crafting the written word. We had NO choice.
Day after day, Sr. WWW prattled on and on that no two sentences in a paragraph should start with the same word. Pretty harsh. She mentioned other stuff too, but even the great and powerful couldn't intervene if you screwed up ... and I'm not talkin' Oz. (Or James Franco, although he would've have convinced her to smoke a bone and shut the f*ck up. Okay, I'll stop.)
Sure as hell's supposedly all fire and brimstone (sorry, I can't stop 'cause, IMO, it's really, really NOT), that sex-starved old penguin would be waddling at breakneck speeds down the aisles, warts and all, to further scream. IN. YOUR. FACE. Crazy bitch. We were twelve.
Somehow it stuck (for the most part), and I pretty much became obsessed with writing from that point on. I felt like it was my secret stash, my mission, my raison d'être. From poetic stream-of-consciousness rants reminiscent of neo-Dada Nam June Paik videos to super-silly songs and nicely structured articles practically begging for a tidy bow on top, I've honed my craft over the years to arrive at this lovely, nonsensical, and ever-so-snide juncture. It's a culmination of all I am. You can imagine my glee -- unrestrained, of course.
Obviously I mangle rules along the way, but a few no-nos in the name of "creative license" is totally acceptable, even thrilling. (To me, anyway.) Isn't the point to express your unique voice? Anyone who's watched GEISHA-MANIA!
knows my voice is definitively "distinct," which is being kind. A few of my fave poetic heroes include Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Shel Silverstein, Jim Morrison, Patti Smith (um, have you listened to "Horses"?), and a list of rappers whose "flow" leaves me speechless. And that, my fellow Catholic school refugees, NEVER happens.
Speaking of which, you can just imagine how friggin' proud Sister-from-a-Higher-Mister would be to read my contribution to National Poetry Day. Yup. Rolling in her BIG. FAT. ROSARY-BEADED GRAVE. So without further snark, I bring you a little "afternoon delight." Pun intended.
Weed, best stuff on earth
Twenty-four carat gold blunts
Now who’s trippin’ boo?
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