This poem I feel for sure is definitely not deserving of the amount of love I give it. It is a nice poem, clever and funny, but perhaps the joke goes on too long. Doesn’t matter, I’m going to continue loving it too much, giggling and sighing on cue. Don’t blame the writer! The sestina made him do it!
According to her housemate, she is out with Bob
tonight, and when she’s out with Bob
you never know when she’ll get in. Bob
is an English professor. Bob
used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob
rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob—
I wish I could ride a motorcycle, Bob,
and also talk about Chaucer intelligently. Bob
is very tall, bearded, reserved. I saw Bob
at a poetry reading last week—he had such a Bob-
like poise—so quintessentially Bob!
The leather jacket, the granny glasses, the beard—Bob!
and you were with my ex-girlfriend, Bob!
And you’re a professor, and I’m nobody, Bob,
nobody, just a flower-deliverer, Bob,
and a skinny one at that, Bob—
and you are a large person, and I am small, Bob,
and I hate my legs, Bob,
but why am I talking to you as if you were here, Bob?
I’ll try to be more objective. Bob
is probably a nice guy. Or that’s what one hears. Bob
is not, however, the most passionate person named Bob
you’ll ever meet. Quiet, polite, succinct, Bob
opens doors for people, is reticent in grocery stores. Bob
does not talk about himself excessively to girlfriends. Bob
does not have a drinking problem. Bob
does not worry about his body, even though he’s a little heavy. Bob
has never been in therapy. Bob,
also, though, does not have tenure—ha ha ha—and Bob
cannot cook as well as I can. Bob
never even heard of paella, and if he had, Bob
would not have changed his facial expression at all. Bob
is just so boring, and what I can’t understand, Bob—
yes I’m talking to you again, is why you, Bob,
could be more desirable than me. Granted, Bob,
you’re more stable, you’re older, more mature maybe but Bob . . .
(Months later, on the Bob-front: My former girlfriend finally married Bob.
Of Bob, she says, “No one has taken me higher or lower than Bob.”
Me? On a dark and stormy sea of Bob-thoughts, desperately, I bob.)
This is not an entirely original post. I’m plagiarizing myself a little here (in as much as part of this post used to exist in the livejournal universe which I left long ago) but if I don’t get to cheat with my own blog, when do I? Exactly.
Went to evensong tonight at King’s Chapel which was amazing. I’ve been a fairly staunch atheist for a long time now; it’s got less to do with the impossibility of the existence of god and more to do with conflicts between my feminism and institutional religion, but there you go. No religion for me, thanks. But I cried when the choir sang. I have a bad habit of crying whenever I hear or see anything particular beautiful; I get the tingling in my spine and the teary eyes every time. Really I’m just a fucking sap, but what can you do really? Better to cry at the truly beautiful things in life than to remain totally unmoved.
And speaking of the truly beautiful things in life, here are selections from Haiku U., From Aristotle to Zola, 100 Great Books in 17 Syllables, by David M. Bader:
Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita
he lays low and is laid low
after laying Lo.
Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis
“What have I become?”
Uncertain, Gregor Samsa
puts out some feelers.
Vatsayana’s Kama Sutra
Advice for those in
a difficult position.
First, be flexible.
Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo
Egg-dipped cheese sandwich. Thy name
is Monte Cristo.
So, I’ve failed again. I don’t have the energy to write anything new tonight; I didn’t really have the energy to do much of anything today. It’s safe to say that I don’t do well in heat. I think someday I could be quite happy living in Norway. Or Antarctica. So instead, I leave you with something to laugh at. Hopefully. Otherwise, you suck.
On days when the weather’s bad, when the only time I leave the house is to go to the gym, and when my hair does weird stuff all day, at least I have you.