Tuesday, September 11, 2007

The Sad Hummingbird of Retardation

I spend my summers in Minnesota, except for this Thursday through Monday, when I will spend that particular interval in Hilton Head South Carolina; and there's also that brief stretch in June where I cottage in northern Wisconsin. My trade is law and I try to ply my trade on a daily basis, lest my employer sack me, requiring me to live under a structurally deficient bridge eating garbage and mayflies. I sometimes go minutes, sometimes hours, without internet access. The silence can be blessed, allowing my mind to escape the paranoid rantings and arrogant proclamations of truth from some morbidly obese jerkwad who gets paid by well heeled liberals to weblog.

I wrote the following prose poem novella haiku photo essay on September 11, after reading a semi-coherent prose poem on the op-ed page of the Minneapolis Star and Tribune. At first I thought that I had misunderstood - but the masthead above the page reminded me that I was perusing the above referenced newspaper, and not, as I had momentarily thought, a seldom read pretentious literary journal. When my brain stopped working, I scribbled off the following poem in a fit of bewildertude and nausea. Bill Holm, the prime metaphor here: the digestive tract for the self-proclaimed cognoscenti from the mouth that won't stop yapping to the anus that poops out grandiose, yet dullwitted and uninformed "observations of our condition". What do left-wing douchebags who think they have a monopoly on truth tell us? It's not pretty.


September 11, 2007: Icelandic Nimrod

More crap from the Opinion Exchange

Some jerk thinks he is a Poet Warrior - brain dead.

All this read whilst eating my lunch;

A repast from plying my law trade. Supping upon

The delicious beef product whilst reading the local paper.

Misunderstanding! Why is this a literary journal?

No. The masthead informs me that this is indeed the op-ed page.

But 'sooth! here lies a "poet" from Iceland! (Tho' only in the summer).

Mitch Berg should be so lucky to have such a frigid dacha!

But onward...

I struggle to get through the overweening turgidity, 'til

Mine eyes stumble upon this rhetorical turd:

So goes business -- as Charles Wilson said: the business of America.

Three quarters of us believe in a personal god who saves and punishes.

Three quarters of us can't find Canada, France, or the Pacific on a map.

We believe in one true god, but not in geography.

The non sequitur (and made-up statistics!) rise off the page,

Levitating effortlessly toward the ceiling,

Until it dissipates into an odiferous brown cloud

Of ignorance. Of petulance. Of...

Fear?

So some guy doesn't know where some city in Iceland is? So what?

I challenge Bill Holm to spell "res ipsa loquitur" correctly (or even know what it means)

Or figure out how to make a shoe, a car (even a Prius), a bridge.

Perhaps strum a few bars of "Can I Play With Madness" on the guitar.

Bill believes in one true god - the god of Himself.

All other less "enlightened" people can go to hell.

(And yes, that means you, buddy - I don't see any Prose Poetry on your ThunderJournal!)

Slogging on...

A reference to Walt Whitman.

The long-winded long-bearded purveyor of boring homoeroticism.

As Darth Vader once noted:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

This Prose Poem

is

over!

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