
Yes, I actually did it. I woke up with a poem-thought in my stupid old head. I frantically searched for a pen and something to write on. I found an envelope with a blank backside. And I committed an act of spontaneous bad poetry.
Here is a readable copy of the insidious verse;

So after I had created this awful, spontaneous, and possibly evil bit of poetry, I began to seriously wonder what the purpose of this particular unfortunate act of creativity really was. Could it be used for anything constructive? Anything at all?
And then I had a thought…
But that was actually not a thought but a sudden need to pass gas.
And then I had another thought. And even though the second one was authentically a real thought created in my allegedly real brain, it was not quite as useful and stress-relieving as the first.
“I could use this piece of poetic abominationhood to rob a bank,” I thought stupidly. “If I walk into a bank lobby and read this poem aloud to everyone, then they will all become suddenly violently ill, and I could clean out the tellers’ cash drawers while they were violently wretching and projectile vomiting.”
But then I had another, far more useful thought, when I realized that reading it aloud might make me ill also, rendering me susceptible to wretching and projectile vomiting myself, and rendering me completely unable to nefariously profit from my bad poetry.
(**Note** Please don’t try reading this aloud to see if it really has the above-mentioned effect on yourself. No amount of smug I-told-you-so’s is worth the risk of not being able to prove me wrong.)
So, what else could I do? I had one more spurious and possibly vile thought on the matter. It is possible to interpret this awful, horrible, smelly snippet of truly bad poetry as a sort of metaphorical pornography. I could use it to appeal to the prurient interests of geometrically-shaped people. I am told there is money to be made in pornography if you are the right kind of person (meaning, of course, people who are definitely not me). But nowhere on the internet could I find a country populated by people who are geometrical in nature. Not a county, city, town, villa, shopping mall, or gas station either, for that matter. It is as if such people don’t actually exist in real life.
Oh, well… I managed to fill up a post with words in it anyway. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?



The worst experience I got from this summer’s food delivery came at the hands of a fellow school teacher. I had to deliver faculty lunch to an elementary school in the last week of summer school classes. It was a large lunch with two bags of burgers and a tray loaded with drinks in flimsy cardboard cups. It was a short drive from the restaurant to the school. But when I got there, it was a school with many entrances and kids playing on two different sides of the building. I went to the door I thought the Uber navigator was directing me to. I knocked. When I got no answer, I called the lady who ordered everything. I told her I was at the west door. She told me that I had to find the main door on the south side of the building. So I managed to juggle the two sacks and the easily spillable drinks to three different doors on the south side, all locked. I called again and was told I must have the wrong building, so I went to the school building across the street and found an office building with only kindergarten and daycare kids present. I called again.
















Being Prosaic
I admit it. I am prosaic. I think in sentences. I speak in paragraphs. I write in 5-paragraph essays. I should stop with the repetition of forms and the parallel structures, because that could easily be seen as poetic and defeat my argument in this post. I write prose. Simple. Direct. Declarative. But those last three are sentence fragments. Does that fit the model of prose? How about asking a question in the middle of a paragraph full of statements? Is that all simple enough to be truly prosaic?
Prose is focused on the everyday tasks of writing. It seems like the world thinks that the mechanical delivery of information in words and sentences should be boring, should be functional, should be simple and easy to understand.
I don’t mean to be pulling your reader’s mind in two directions at once, however. I need to stop confusing you with my onslaught of sentences full of contradictory and complex ideas. I should be more clear, more direct, and more to the point.
So here is my thesis, finally clearly stated; The magic of writing prose, it turns out, makes you the opposite of prosaic.
Simply stated; I am a writer of prose. I am too dumb about what makes something poetry to really write anything but prose. But I do know how to make a word-pile like this one that might just accidentally make you think a little more deeply about your writing… that is, if you didn’t give up on reading this three paragraphs ago. I find it useful to examine in writing how I go about writing and what I can do with it. I try to push the boundaries in directions they haven’t been pushed before. And hopefully, I learn something from every new essay I write. What I learned here is that I am prosaic. And that is not always a bad thing.
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