If I were a sestina, I’d be repeated, rearranged, and available in six different flavors on thirty-nine lines and ready to pass the time on your bookshelf in a collection of poems you never plan to read.
Fortunately, I am not a sestina. I’m just me. For some reason, you’re reading me. I read differently online than I do at times when distance is not calculated in kilobytes per second.
School is full of the sounds of trampeled summers and memories already being stuffed into caskets and buried six degrees below conscious thought. Reconnecting with people (and their names), meeting new people, recruiting, and doing the things “I should do.”
Analyzing self is difficult. Selfology can be scary at times, especially when you’re disappointed with the findings. Time to dig some more. Dirt abounds, and I’d like to replace it with something less dark, perhaps the remains of jellyfish pulled from the ocean using a frisbee.
I’m taking poetry again this semester, if you can’t tell yet. This is a flex of my creative juices, and I hope it’s not too bitter. With any luck, you’ll see spiffy and spectacular poems as a result. Then again, they may all suck and cause the wind to tear through this site with the beauty of the aurora borealis and deadliness of a hurricane on the shores of your life. Yes, it was a dark and stormy night…