I read poems last night. We started incredibly late because the traffic SUCKED. I don't know what has happened to Seattle traffic. Tonight people were running red lights, cutting each other off, etc etc. No civility. I gotta go live somewhere quieter. Really.
You know, poetry readings, a mixed bag, right? Some good stuff. And dare I say this, one gay boy read FOUR poems about fisting. One poem about fisting is quite enough, but four? Ewwww. I mean, I'm an open minded kinda gal. Sexual activity is, well varied and interesting. I keep up with Savage Love pretty faithfully. But at a reading??? Fisting???? "I'm inside you with my fist..".and so my visuals start up and well, yuck.
Maybe I'm an old fuddy-duddy. I probably am. My mother said we girls should leave certain things to the imagination. Maybe I'm turning into my mother. Lord.
And besides, is this poetry? I once sat through a workshop many years ago and listened to a guy recite a poem about shitting. Honestly, I did. Gross, right?
Ok, I'm done with this topic. Deb's already in bed and I'm headed there. Tomorrow I'm tackling the giant pile of newspapers, poems and opened books on the floor. I can't take it anymore.
Here's my new rule: Certain bodily functions are off-limits as poetic subjects. Please review.
Thank you and good night.