Never Sent
02/11/01
Never sent to Mr. X factor.
Hello X.
Just wanna say hello & happy vdays (sort of).
The only thing I can really say is that you provided marvelous material
for me to kick off some writing. Yup, an interesting mopey muse, that’s you.
So sincerely, thanks.
No big woop, no really.
Laters,
MJ
Yada, Yada, Yada,
So I survived another Monday.
WaddahIwant, a cookie?
(Yes please)
Gentlemen
They buy you flowers without expecting anything back.
They help rescue you when you’ve run out of gas.
Nor do they bring it up/rub it in your face, or keep tally of such events.
They listen to you when you need to vent & give hugs freely.
They make pot pie.
Thanks Jon,
*HELLO LADIES* SCOOP THIS GUY UP!
Other Details:
Spent last night going through my copy of the Poetry Marketplace 2001.
Poets get paid beans. And it’s not easy either.
There is nominal if any name recognition or fame associated with it among contemporary poets.
And it’s work. More than you’d realize.
Perhaps you imagine poets as some sort of ruffle sleeved pansy walking around with ribbons of verse just pouring out of their mouths as they frolic about with a kerchief doing a mad dance.
Bullocks.
Or perhaps the tortured alcoholic poet, wearing black, smoking cloves (DAMN IT WHEN WILL THE CRAVINGS STOP), borderline suicidal, weepy, and with too much eyeliner.
Bullocks.
Or perhaps the beatnick age of Aquarius body tattooed gal with hemp clothing and an uncommon affinity towards patchouli and herbal tea.
Bullocks.
This particular poet is a dork yuppie gal.
But yeah, sometimes I have words on a ribbon.
And cigarettes. (But trying to quit! Really!)
And herbal tea.
MJ
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