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Blood and Poetry

I went to college. Actually, I went to several colleges, and changed my major several times before I finally finished, but that’s totally not the point. The BA I finally ended up with is in English:Creative Writing:Poetry, with a minor in Theater. Yes, that’s a degree that will get you a job in any field!

I always enjoyed poetry, although I’m still not sure why I chose to major in it. I’m more of a reader than a writer, in spite of the many aspirations my mother has for me. I did put together a collection (a “thesis” if you will) for my final project, and gave many readings for classes. That part I was good at; I’d never had a problem being in front of others. But over the years I’ve written less and less, and I miss it. In an effort to get back in the groove, so to speak, I dug up as many of my old poems as I could find. Aren’t you lucky–I’m going to post some of them! (Be afraid, be very afraid!)

Before we get to today’s poem, can someone explain to me why, when I am feeling low, watching a show like Dexter, or reading a Jonathan Kellerman novel, full of blood and mayhem, monsters and murder, makes me feel so much better? It can’t just be me, or these things wouldn’t be as popular as they are, right? I’ve spent the last two days watching Dexter on Netflix, while doing all the other things I need to do. And yes, I suddenly feel so much more normal. Really, compared to most of the characters on this show, I’m a paragon of mental health. Good to know.

And now for the literary portion of today’s post! One of my favorites. Enjoy.



In a hypothetical world,

I am a bimbo goddess of poetry,

Enshrined in my coffeehouse castle,

my words the songs of a generation.

Attended by sugary seraphim upon my beachside throne,

my name resonates on the tongues of cappuccino demigods.

He, bespectacled, brilliant, falls at my feet,

quoting darkly my childlines.

As gilded graces join us in our dance,

we whirl through a city of stars into

our moonpalace home.

Fall through velvet loveclouds into beds of miracles.

Strongly carefree of wings or wheels,

tasting of copper and chocolate,

a literary, bad-­tempered love of scarlet phrases in my head.

He whispers, solemn:

“God has spoken, and he sounds like Elvis.”


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