Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Should You Celebrate Mother’s Day If Your Mother Is Dead?

Let’s say for one moment that your mother died of an accidental prescription drug overdose in a hotel room located in a pretty shitty city (say, Cincinnati) on a date with your father for his pretty cheesy event—a medal ceremony. Specifically, a medal ceremony for those patriotic magic-workers of genealogy, The Sons of the American Revolution.
The Lovely Dead Mother from Hitchcock's "Psycho".

Now that she’s dead, consider this: Would you or should you celebrate Mother’s Day? Visit her grave? Visit your grandparents (her parents) if they’re still lucky enough to reside in the house of the living?

Friday, May 6, 2011

Is Meta-Narrative Finally Too Aware of Itself?

In reflection of a poem I’ve written lately called, “The Daughter’s of Aphrodite’s Moonshine Whiskey Dirge,” I wrote to another poet, a friend of mine who will give me an honest and fair critique, the following:

Dearest poetry friend,

So, I've been wanting to write a prose poem for a long while now, probably since 2008. I think the first and only one I wrote was by accident, something called On That Which Cannot Be Said, in my thesis, which only you, Bildo, could point out to me in class (and everyone else) that it should be read as a poem. Then I got a hard-on for Baudelaire.

This is a rather ambitious piece, which makes my cock go grandpa limp. Took me three days to write it. But I am looking for criticism. I'm afraid to say too much about it and what it's supposed to be or do, to get an honest critique, but at the same time don't want it misinterpreted. So, I'll just say that's it's totally serious and supposed to make fun of itself (or its themes) at the same time and leave the rest to you.

The only prose poetry I've really read is Flowers of Evil from 3 years ago. I don't know what I'm doing.

Jaques-trude, de garge!
(Thank you!)

-Buck Hennesy Fisher, the second.

Here’s a piece of the poem: “Think not! That my tale’s unaware of this rhyming self-aware style, my ancient yarn reeks of postmodern duplicity and postmortem distortions. Because even such awareness is beyond that which is needed like everything beyond everything, beyond everything beyond, papal bulls or dogma, demurely splattered on halls colored day-glo in an opaque darkness, one for amusement, the other for art, but neither for art’s own sake in the age of amusement.”