I immediately dropped everything I was in the middle of because I felt compelled to answer Emma's commentary about me. So I tried my best to outdo her (which, to be honest, has no bearing on her feedback or its significance). I want to reassure myself that I can still write clever but mediocre poetry. Certainly none of my poetic work is worthy of publication or blogging about, but for my own private enjoyment, I like my poetry.

Based on what I came up with, I have to admit I still have a lot to learn from Emma. However, there are some glimmers of latent poetic talent that gives me hope that one day I can write more elegantly, like Emma does in her final drafts.

Here's the mediocre poem I came up with, but remember this was created under the duress of an injury to my very fragile self-esteem, which I believe often gives one's writing a 'handicap allowance' so that it can be judgedby the reader in context. Proof? Well, pretend the below was written by a five year old and it would be stunningly precocious; pretend it's written by Maya Angelou and you might reconsider whether she were losing her penchant for good writing.

We will fight together,
side by side, I hope,
but if Emma refuses to fight,
I'll fight her myself
through the stinging
lyrics of my prose
prose that I compose
compose and decompose
decompose and decompress
put on a dress, dear, it's Sunday.
fate of my spirit
spirit of record
record of birth
birth of a genre
genre of a novice
novice of no vice
no vice of mine
mine for the past
passed for a joke
a joke that breaks yolk
upon the pate of some folk
who don't even realize they're woke
whatever that means I assume it's a joke
a joke that broke because the olivewood
that gave it structure and a marriage bed
like the badass bed built directly
in an olive tree he shared with Penelope
eventually anyway. Took him long enough!
I thought of a joke, hinging on a pun
olives would, olivewood wouldn't
what do you think? Did that make you groan?
Bitch go head and groan your rhetoric
I think you might
be my type
You into serifs?
Why, am I under arrest?
I didn't say you were under arrest. Are you? Oh, I said serif not sheriff
So I'm not under arrest?
Not yet. I'm still not a Sheriff. But I was going to ask if you might want to come over and do a few lines with me
Nope. Sans Serif only
nothing personal it's just
No I understand; everyone has their own preference
I was gonna say it's just for religious reasons
Are you Jewish?
What kind of question is that?
What kind of question is THAT?!
It's a yes/no question, to be clear.
Would it be a problem if I were?
Well done! Usin' that subjunctive! What a great mood! And no, it's not a problem at all; why would it be?
Just . . . it's just . . . my parents only want me to hang out with right-to-left languages because they say
Everyone has the right to be left alone,
but nobody is left alone if they are right.
Oh nice, I love bumper sticker aphorisms!
But truly, that was very well done
like a stake
in the heart
heartland of the country
country of the free
to use during the trial period;
but when freedom no longer rings, we cancel the
just because one's serif has been snipped off at birth
one's kerning will never have any less girth
If I told you my stats, you'd assume I'm all hype
Euphemisms are cheap like a rhyming wet-wipe
A gag gift for authors
who know they're 'the shit'
I hope it is clear what a deeply serious scholar I am.
my entire book collection, I'm not kidding
Illusions will shatter when you see
all those letters on my shelves
arranged neatly on paper and bound
I'm sorry if sometimes it gets confusing
or if you start to think there's some trust I'm misusing
where I lead you down one path then BAM! by surprise
my brain - which is found somewhat aft of the eyes
INTERJECTS abruptly that:
Anyway letters in longhand have not yet been sent
I typed them myself on the first day of Lent
without my tobacco, a wholesome day spent
in the predictable misery of nicotine
so I lit up anyway, knowing that relenting
is an option
with the very high price
of your judgement
This is the equivalent of a mixed-materials poem
I'm not the first to attempt it, but I'm the first one to do it with this particular meter
a sophisticated melange in the tradition of mixed materials literature.
Iambic pentameter sometimes,
limericks at other times,

aspiring to cleverness at all times, (e.g., now, which as far as you and I are concerned is . . . right now! I'm punctual and will be here on time anytime you come back to read this. I am here for you. So I wrote a poem for you, the reader.
Butter my heart, O five course meal of text
so I may give you glory as the best.
Admit I do the many lines refused
cinco iambus does not fit the rules
Tensile labels, each line a disaster
A force now weak, below, relinquishes
to me the right, (or, yes, perhaps, duty)
to redefine the forms that I don't like.
Don't call this experimental, though,
because an experiment requires a hypothesis, materials, and
a measure of control
measure of control twice,
cutting of control once.

Look. See? These aren't words.
This is just text.
It turns into words when it is read.
YOU , READER , bring these words to life simply with your gaze upon their elegant serifs
We words -- all of us up here on this page -- want to sincerely thank you for reading us.
If it weren't for you, we would never exist,
and if words can't get together, you'll have no sentences, not to mention paragraphs or chapters.
Who would ever want to read a text with no words?
there's probably a word for that
not illiteracy
but aliteracy
Back to back-breaking genres,
now that many be bent
shaped into something now new, lacking yet honors
but fit to be lent.
the words that we see are not the words that we speak, and how could they ever be?
the words that we see are not even words;
they are letters;

words bespoken

by a tailor in a top hat
with fangs