I love poetry. Really, I do.

I'd like to thank you for turning on your confuser tonight (confuser = computer)
Before we begin on this lovely winter evening, I'd like to take the opportunity to say that in tonight's choice rant, I mean no offense to any author or literary work, books nor magazines, silent films, billboards, or any other such written material. Thank you.

And so the fun begins.

I have heard Edgar Allen Poe too many times for my taste. I have endured endless praise for Mark Twain endlessly. If the Wild called me I would politely decline. I do not know why a tree grows in Brooklyn nor do I know why this particular tree would be exceptionally fascinating. Robert Frost's ability to have his poems permeate every single school in the United States both astounds me and turns my mood rather frosty.
I DON'T GIVE A WHIT ABOUT WALT WHITMAN. HE IS COLD AND DEAD. SO ARE HIS POEMS. HE MAKES ME FEEL COLD AND DEAD INSIDE.

Why do we have to endure such torture as to hear literature repeated over and over and over? Why do the same poems, the same stories, the same authors have such a social stranglehold on schools?

I don't see how every teacher seems to love the same literature. And then, their procedures for teaching said literature to their students isn't unlike flogging them with a rusty yardstick. Do all job requirements for English teachers say "Must love classic literature with a fiery passion and must have same passion for passing on their passion for classic literature to pupils?" Really?

Poems and stories are good the first few times. I respect authors, poets, publishers, the like. I even enjoy some of the works of the authors I mentioned earlier. It's just that I have heard their works, usually the same work, in fact, repeatedly throughout the years. Also, teachers seem to find satisfaction in making reading classic literature mandatory. It's like adding insult to injury and making it routine to boot. Also, if teachers think that a book/poem/work is wonderful, that's their opinion. Not the opinion of the thirty-some-odd students in their care.

The only book I've seemed to enjoy while in English class was S.E. Hinton's "The Outsiders.", and even then we had to memorize the whole 'stay gold' poem. Not that it was a long poem, it was just frustrating. "Island of  the Blue Dolphins" wasn't bad either, nor was "My Side of the Mountain" or "Hatchet".

Goodnight reader.

Why poetry readings reeeally bug me. Part II.

As I was saying, they quickly thrash out who'll carpool with whom and head over to the nearest Chinese restaurant, packed together as tightly as rice in a stuffed grape leaf in their vehicle, as though a giant is about to pick up the outsized, "artistically" graffitied van and take a bite. They soon reach the Chinese restaurant and order as much Dim Sum as they think they can stomach. The group decides to read another poem while they wait at their giant, lotus-flowered table surrounded by bamboo screens. The poem is neither morbid nor heartfelt, neither emotional nor deep. The poem is as such:

"If you go to the park

On a Saturday eve

The stars look so small

They could fit through a sieve. 

If you had a telescope

Of old worn bronze

You could look for the sun

As soon as it dawns

However, if you look through your 'scope

At the sun as it dawns

YOUR EYES WILL SHRIVEL UP, DRIBBLE BODILY FLUID ALL OVER YOUR FACE AND FALL OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND YOU WILL DIE A HORRIBLE PROLONGED GORE-RIDDEN DEATH"

Now the writing quality of theses poems has improved, though the last bit may, ah, need some, *ahem*, revisions. Extensive revisions. Anyways, the previous author is shoved to the side. The entire group converges on this new literary prodigy with a hunger for knowledge only comparable to cannibals, zombies, or shrieking, brainwashed, preposterous concert fans. The group is about to torture the perplexed author for every single one of his short story plotlines and witty rhymes when the Dim Sum arrives! The group quickly hides away their clicky pens and extensive stacks of post-its, (weapons of choice), until the unnerved waiter quickly deposits his load of soy sauce smothered rice noodles and dumplings. Then they whip them back out and lean forward, each poised over their own plate of eastern pabulum, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. Nothing seems to happen for the longest time. Not a single bite is eaten. Then a poet's eyes flash open and his mouth seems to move all of its own: 

"Enter the extensive realm of my creative complexes,

Penrose tile, multifarious Lemoine hexes,

Superimposed hypotheses, interdependable but nevertheless,

Talk to me while I'm thinking and I'll break your mesenteric plexus"

The poet in question stops short and looks down at his mouth, astonished. The rest of the group is likewise befuddled, every member completely flabbergasted that such a thing could come out of the mouth of a consort. They had only heard of rap, only caught rumors of it's reputation spoken in hushed tones. They had only speculated as to what the hip-hop crusade entailed. They now drew back, alarmed.

But this didn't seem to be mindless bragging about fictitious accomplishments and seventh wives. This couldn't be the rap of which they had descried. No, this was most definitely a subdivision. This was Nerdcore.

It is past my bedtime.

I bid thee a good night, dear reader.

Why poetry readings reeeally bug me. Prepare yourself.

Poetry readings usually start with someone reading their poem. They get nervous, blush a bit, maybe shuffle their feet and get modest all of a sudden. And the poem will then be something either incredibly heartfelt, emotional, and morbid, or something like this:

"I was playing with a ball and bat

When I saw a black cat

I couldn't see through the fog

So I fell in a bog

It was cold in the bog

I started to jog

I saw a monster in there

It had funny hair

Then I found Tim

And then we saw Jim

Then I asked Tim the time

Out of the bog we did climb"

And then the whole poetry group will clap and cheer and eat stale cookies provided by some old lady who dug them out of the back of her pantry. They'll shower the reader with all sorts of compliments, adulations, throw themselves on their knees, kiss the reader's boots, bestow upon them all sorts of tributes, etc., etc.

Anyways, the discussion comes next. And of course, each member has to contribute a comment about how deep and histrionic and passionate the reader is. The conversation gets started, each member spurred on by the sugar rush from horrible, concrete cookies and their extensive lack of hobbies, unless you count locking yourself in a gloomy, musty closet for hours and vomiting onto a page (*from the archives of Ms. Rear) a hobby. The members of the poetry group contribute their opinions of what the deeper meaning behind "I couldn't see through the fog/So I fell in a bog" could be. Could "bog" be a reference to intense, clouding emotional discomfort? Indecision on the reader's place in life? Shock from a traumatic experience? Or maybe the reader simply discovered an unknown world beneath our feet, a world never explored before, a world so filled with paranormal creatures and dangerous, malignant fauna that no creature, be it man or beast, has ever explored past three feet into the cloudy marshlike climate. 

The reader mentions that he/she wrote the poem while eating several pounds of Dim Sum. The group is ecstatic! They work themselves into a frenzy, piling speculation upon conjecture upon hypothesis upon presumption upon surmission! Dim Sum vapors may increase writer's creative, intellectual, or imaginative capacity! Now they quickly thrash out who'll carpool with whom and head over to the nearest Chinese restaurant, packed together as tightly as rice in a stuffed grape leaf in their vehicle, as though a giant is about to pick up the outsized, "artistically" graffitied van and take a bite.

It is now past my bedtime. 

Goodnight.

-To Be Continued.............................(muahahahahehehehahahacoughcoughcoughhackwheeze)

Flying Whales! Hooray! (Hehehe)

Now what if I were to ask you "What is Science Fiction?"

What would you say?

Now I get that fiction isn't based on real events, people, places, things, nouns, blah blah blah, because otherwise all fiction writers would be sued for everything but their inspirational Snuggie ( I can't find the symbol for the little circley R thing). However, I pose to you this ponderous question: "Why can't Science Fiction be based off of technology that is actually achievable?" Whoa. Don't get too excited. But really, why? I know that lately I've sort of been sort of insulting towards books in general, and really, I apologize. Actually, no I don't. Anyways, is it so terrible of me to ask for just a grain of truth in some gruesome, gory, alien infested realm envisioned by some guy whose computer is his best friend? I mean, if you spend enough time on the computer to write a book, then you have enough time to do some serious astrophysics research, or whichever exceptionally unheard-of topic you're injecting in-between pages of appalling, deplorable,   zombie apocalypse. Not that I have anything against gory death scenes. In fact, quite the opposite (Though "The Hot Zone" was just a bit too in-depth for my taste). Right now, I'm halfway through "Invasive Procedures" by Orson Scott Card and Aaron Johnston, a book which I've been searching for for the past few months. I had read it previosly, I just forgot everything but the plot. Anyways, just about everything that occurs in this fantastic novel could occur. This novel both envisions a complex, convoluted plotline filled with gore and extensive action scenes, and provides background information and scientific facts of an unparalleled quality about a subject, which, when twisted into the plot, is still able to be used as a suitable nonfiction base for events.

I know that was hard to decipher. So I'll make it bigger for you people with a lack of acumen.

This novel both envisions a complex, convoluted plotline filled with gore and extensive action scenes, and provides background information and scientific facts of an unparalleled quality about a subject, which, when twisted into the plot, is still able to be used as a suitable nonfiction base for events.

Happy?

Good. Because, who really wants to read a book about a group of people who build a flying mechanical whale and fly it into an alternate dimension where the main currency is scraps of purple yarn and social status is determined by how many ladles you own?

(Actually, that doesn't sound too bad.)

But now you get my point.

*Acumen -

–noun

keen insight; shrewdness: remarkable acumen in business matters.

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/acumen