While sitting on the couch this afternoon, I read a poem that pissed me off. A sneer made text, the slime from which it had been formed still dripping from the last phrase; a rhythm that bent these inflated tires of suburban sincerity and tossed me onto the cracked sidewalk to watch those who were walking there, not to forget that everyone who passed cursed themselves and desired others and sneered at the same in their neighbor. Or perhaps merely sneered at themselves, watching their own actions endlessly for the beat of a new line.
Then, when I left that voice behind, I was grateful for those poets who "speak to other poets," for those who speak the language that I learned well enough to get by but never well enough to speak myself. So often I'm frustrated by the prevalence of romance titles in the genres that I read, of the demand that things be either a mirror for the mordant or a continuous prattle of meaningless liaisons. Why can't there be a language for me?
On a less whiny but no less irritating note, why is Google trying to translate everything on my screen into Spanish? Is this some helpful new bug that I accidentally tripped?
Hey, aren't we supposed to be talking about books on this blog?
Maybe tomorrow.
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