My friend has an acrylic sweater that changes color and shape every day, namely because every morning he chooses a different brush and palate to paint it on.
I once encountered a massive bobcat on an overgrown trail in Southern Illinois. I reached into my pistol holster and from it pulled a purple ball of yarn.
Wallets are inappropriately named. If they really were miniature walls, it would be very hard for pickpockets to find your cash.
about the 54 poems at 27 ::
After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.
I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.
Then I got over it.
Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.
Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.
That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.
So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.
cover image by Transformer18
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