DOPE-ITTY-DOO-WOP!!
At 5:31 PM -0500 2/5/06, Allen Bramhall wrote:
One city after another discards language for the more vital
infidelities, those that can't lightly be named. Thus poetry, hounded by
the principles of mayhem--which are resident in ticklish parlours of
pleasantries (try to decide why)--invites disaster by writing essays
concerned with dragon lore and cellphone history, thoughtless of
priceless readership.
Cellphones, august with the sulfurous approval of righteous dragons,
seems pent up for destruction. All words go thru this channel, to wire
up a concern and prove, again, that dragons need dough to live, even big
bucks, just like your excellency. So how, prithee, do we break this mode
of thought in the dull morning exactly?
Often we are drafted into humdrum wartime exercises, finding couth in
all manner of tricking those religious beings who push us forward. There
is no nicer dragon than the one oh my god it has ruby eyes of fire and
makes dreams seem like wasted youth! Yet can you calm down? No. Religion
amasses fairly, sold with proper consideration, and kept by the door for
moments of real need. If we were really taken by poetry, we wouldn't be
so afraid of the dragon's swooping presence.
Our fears, see, grow up in archetypal normalcy, having to do
particularly with doesn't that creaking sound on the stirs make you
think of other features of fear? And so language trumps our every super
hand, as if the cellphone weren't a vital vortex into which the pure
language, like aces up the sleeve, flows. Enter the field now, await the
dragon's next batch of carnal proclivities that will once again send us
to windows screeching for medicine, the more unguent the better.
Slowly, the essential characteristics appear soluble, like trams of
which we've heard. As we ride in charming rattle, our cellphone rings.
Conversation will touch modes of inheritance, until we reach our stop.
Some teens are louder than the very moment you said hello, but that
energy isn't shared. You are appealed to: can you justify a dragon? You
look to your cellphone's palette of potent functions, even text
messaging and music downloads. It fits in pocket or purse with slim
efficiency, ringing you up alert at movie theatre or elsewhere with the
pressure of news, joyful emphasis of someone who knows you. Does poetry
so survive its inadequacy that it can share such bountiful imbroglio?
Dragons march on the town, securing ramparts and otherwise making the
most of movie history. Language next will fall. It will be your fault,
pilgrim, you and your ranking behaviour behind these frail fortress walls.
