I told you I’m not a good blogger. But go on and read this anyway.

Welcome!  This is the first entry of a mediocre blog.  Being sober isn’t advised, so at this time, I do ask everyone to please take a big swig of tequila, or a mondo bite of hash brownie (and we can just wait here until it kicks in…good? Alright, let’s keep going.)   But if you’re intent on reading sober, I can only promise a series of letters, which make up words, which then combine to create sentences, which in turn, will be my blog entry.  Low expectations, and nobody gets hurt, okay?

So let’s get this thing started.  (Cue the fireworks, and Cirque Du Soleil performance, and there you have it – a not very good blogger opening ceremony).

Okay, one more shot of tequila, and let’s jump right into this.

Today I listened to some poetry.  Not by choice, of course.  It was strictly because I was listening to CBC Radio One, and they were classing up the joint with some Canadian poets.  Each one was speaking in metaphors on top of metaphors, with that kind of unstoppable energetic rhythm that makes me nervous listening to serious poetry.  Now, before I get any hateful haikus from my readers (ie. this blog really sucks/I need more tequila shots/to endure this shit), I just want to say that I respect all of that crap.  But for some reason, if I don’t hear a funny rhyme, then I don’t get it.  Basically anything beyond Shel Silverstein, and I’m stumped.  And annoyed.  And want to burn books.

I’ve thought in the past that this is a flaw in my character.  Something I need to work on.  Like booze – I didn’t always guzzle back my beer, I had to work on it!  And it was worth it, because dammit, getting drunk was something that mattered to me.  Perhaps poetry was the same.  I just needed to read, breathe, and bathe in poetry until it finally sunk in, and I’d be nodding my head along with all the other poetry enthusiasts.  Feeling each word with every fibre of my being.  Not worrying about whether the words rhyme or not, because who needs that when you have orgasmic metaphors that transport you to a new world.  A new existence!  An elite world of sexy poets that compare my body parts to nature and food stuffs, and make me feel fancy.  But alas, it never happened.  To this day, most poetry I read or hear tickles the part of my brain that makes me absolutely INSANE!

I do have a confession before we take this any further.  I am guilty of writing poetry. I know…  The very thing that drives me nuts, I am guilty of myself!  I was just a kid, and during my adolescence it was my go-to option for expressing my deepest disappointments of teenage life.  And I had a lot of disappointments.  And I liked writing poems. It made me feel better – almost as if the pain I was going through meant something, because from it, I had created something beautiful.  Which, by the way, is what I love about art.  But poetry turned out to be just a phase.  Once I made it through that hormonally charged era, I left poetry behind and never looked back.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps I just grew tired of it.  And I had different ways of expressing my disappointments with life – like drinking beer!

And I suppose along with not writing it, I lost my sense of appreciating other poems as well.  It became inaccessible.  A word puzzle that only served to confuse me and make me feel stupid.  So I’d lash out at those who wrote it, and call them pretentious asses!  (Not out loud. Just in my head.  I’m not THAT crazy.)

But I honestly don’t think people who write poetry are pretentious asses.  I think they are artists doing work that I don’t understand.  Which does make me feel stupid, but I’m okay with that.  I’d rather feel stupid, than have a world with no poetry.  And I’m hoping, one of these days, I’ll hear a poem that changes everything for me.  One epic modern poem that breaks down the barriers for block heads like me, and opens the doors to iambic pentameter and beat poetry, instead of the bawdy verses and childish rhymes that I can’t seem to get past.

And with that, I leave this first blog entry with a sense of accomplishment.  For not only have I come to terms with my poetry pretenses, but I also have completed this entry with a renewed love of the arts, and I couldn’t have done it without my muse: beer.  I love you beer!  Which is why you should probably read this blog while you’re drunk.  It’ll be easier to impress you with your mind altered.

Thanks for reading.  Live long and prosper.

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