Because Viv Is Dedicated. I Mean, DEDICATED.

And to prove it, here’s my second post for the day, to make up for yesterday’s outage-forced-pass.

When I was writing this poem, I thought to myself, as I have occasionally thought to myself whilst writing a poem before, hm. Hm. Hm. This sounds familiar. And as I kept writing the Hms got louder and louder, as the poem began to sound more and more familiar. And then I completed the poem and began to type it out and thought, Oh. That’s it. The ex-boyfriend. Of course. The ex-boyfriend of the plaid shirts and the creamed-corn-tasting breath once, indeed, did write a poem which began with the line “Were I to see you at a rock show,” or something of the like. And I froze, for a moment, thinking, Oh. Oh no. Oh no. And I debated, for a moment, the poem. I thought, perhaps, it would be best not to post it. I thought it might be best not to even type it out. I thought, I can’t take that from him. Can I?

And then I remembered that, though I have none of his possessions, he still, to this day, to this minute, to this second, has in his possession several things he took from me, including two very much beloved CDs and — AND! — a copy of a much-loved book — autographed by the incredibly fabulous and undeniably amazing Mark Doty. Other things he took from me include countless ink pens, hundreds of cigarettes, a hand-crocheted afghan, and a garden gnome I lovingly painted by myself. And my ability to listen to REM’s “You Are the Everything” without curling into a little ball and crying, crying, crying. And my innocence. There was my innocence. There was that. Oh, and my ability to have a successful and meaningful relationship. There was that. Oh, oh, and my general faith in the inherent goodness of mankind and the fact that not every person is out to screw me horribly and leave me in a shell of unspeakable numbness that lasts for months, if not years. There was that, too. Wait. What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. The poem.

Were I to Meet You at a Rock Show

I’d still have angst I should’ve gotten rid of at 18.

Just you try to hold me down. Come on, try to shut me up.

My dearest, most fashionable reader: the intensity of NaPoWriMoFa (National Poetry Writing Month of Fashion) has caught me deep within its clutches. I have been sweating profusely at night for over a week — embarrassingly profusely, humiliatingly profusely. I can no longer trust myself or my emotions. I feel as if I am lost within the caverns of my own brain with gaping abysses on either side. Yes, dearest reader, being immersed in the process of poetry twenty-four hours a day for almost a month has taken its toll.

Take any of the women’s faces pictured here, dear reader (from The Blair Witch Project, The Ring, The Descent, and Event Horizon, respectively), and superimpose her emotion onto my face, and you will have a good idea of what my face has looked like during wakefulness as well as slumber this Terrifyingly Beautiful Month of April.

But please! Do not worry about my state of being, for those of you who know me also know that I tend to lean toward the fashionably (melo)dramatic whenever possible. It’s for the sake of the story, dear readers. It’s all for the sake of the story. And what a most fabulous story it is, dear readers! What a most fabulous story it is! Once again, I thank Most Fashionable Vivienne for inviting me to take part in this endeavor with her, and I also thank her for believing in my sanity. Thank you, Most Fashionable Vivienne. Thank you.

Though this month has been terrifyingly exhausting at times (and also, at times, just terrifying), it has also been incredibly, incredibly beautiful. There has been no pushing poetry aside for, say, Intervention marathons, America’s Next Top Model marathons, Law and Order: CI marathons, etc., etc. There has been the writing of the poems AND Intervention marathons, America’s Next Top Model marathons, Law and Order: CI marathons, etc., etc. I have found that poetry and television can coexist! O happy day! O happy, happy, fabulously fashionable day!

Serenata

You can’t [read the rest of this poem, betches! it's gone!]

Because There Are Forces and Forces Beyond Our Control

Dear Internet friends, you may, perhaps, have noticed that I did not post a poem last night. I did not post a poem last night. I was, in fact, unable to post a poem last night, due to an Internet outage in the area which lasted through three incredibly confusing phone calls with my Internet service provider, the night, and most of the morning. Ah, Internet! My dearest friend! Without you, I was forced to actually work and be productive, rather than examining blogs, examining Facebook profiles, playing rounds of Scramble, and looking at various forms of fashion. How could you do such a thing to me? How?

Now, however, the Internet has returned to me. And to prove my fidelity to NaPoWriMo, I shall post today not once, but twice! Here is the first poem, written in the middle of a Rock Concert (sadly, there were no fabulously fashionable top hats or white feathered jackets, so I’m not even sure it could be terms a Rock Concert) in a bar. I’ve long been fascinated with closed captioning, and spent a good deal of time glancing back and forth from the television to the Rock Concert to the sorority girls who were sitting in a corner with tube tops and look of utter confusion on their faces when someone pulled out a banjo. Here is the result.

Close (Captions)