January 24, 2006

Palpable and mute\As a globed fruit

Two things about my poetry class.

1. In the beginning of most poetry workshops, everyone goes around the room, stating their name, major, hometown, any previous creative writing classes, their favorite poet and why. It's pretty much standard opening, at least for all of the classes I've taken.

Yeah, I'm Bob, I'm an English major, originally from Wisconsin, and uh, this is my third workshop. My favorite poet is Dorothy Parker, because she has a great sardonic wit and her poems really come together as a whole well.

All right. Class goes on, and I clandestinely did the school newspaper's crossword puzzle. We go around the room, and the professor hands out copies of "My Papa's Waltz." We started a close reading of the poem, and everyone started jumping on the 'child abuse' bandwagon. Blah blah blah, 'hung on like death', blah blah 'battered' blah blah 'beat', blah 'whiskey and fathers is a bad combination.' You know, whatever. I raised my hand to make some point that the poem really isn't about child abuse but instead about awkward, drunken paternal affection. She pointed at me, and struggled for my name.

"And, um... you--the, uh, Dorothy Parker guy."


Though oddly coincidental, that she would refer to me with the pseudonym I use for an ex, particularly the ex I've been talking about more and more since the semester started, not always in the most flattering of terms.

Even though there's no way for her to have known that, (well, I suppose there is a way, but I doubt any middle-aged poetry professors read this) it still means that class, for me at least, didn't start out on the right foot.

2. However, that soon changed. This boy, with a really soft looking beard, proceeded to eyefuck me with his brown eyes all throughout class until my orifices bled. (No, I will not make a joke about his third brown eye. At least not yet.)

After class I was all ready to go over to the other side of the room, start up a conversation and possibly give him my number, but some lesbo bitch with two lip rings and hair like a cactus was chatting him up before I could get there. I had to go to the bathroom, and by the time I finished and was making my way to the lobby/elevators, both of them were gone.

The problem is, poetry classes only meet once a week, so I'll have to wait until next Monday for another eye molestation. Oh well.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.