I have to wonder how much of my poetic inspiration derives from darkness, frustration and irritation. Today, the weather is glorious. I'm relatively happy. My hangover has subsided. I'm looking forward to dinner with family and friends. Therefore (?), my poetic inclinations/inspiration are at 25%.
I'm tempted to write a poem that starts "roses are red and violets are blue."
Roses are Red, Gender is Blue
The way roses are red, and gender is blue,
sometimes I'm tempted to go through
insane intellectual contortions in order
to prove an arcane point on the border
of human intelligence, but I pretend
it's just obvious, duh, like, you know, gender
is meant to be bent, ya'll, and love equals roses
dyed red ( or blue) -- because it's just a pose,
nothing more than a social construction, and
thus subject to continual re- and deconstruction.
Oh to be alive and writing this silly palaver
on a Sunday, when sun shines like hammered silver
over the genderless shoots of daffodils,
and neutered pets on leashes finally get their fill
of the neighborhood, strolling past socially scripted
males washing their trucks, and socially scripted
females raking the dead leaves from their lawns,
their faces a dull study. This line will end in "yawn."
Except of course for those guys who are raking,
and those chicks inside houses, refusing to bake,
and neutered apartment dwellers, yard free, smoking
on their stoops, and smirking. Squirrels poke
through the sexless branches of maple trees,
the crocus and daffodil push up, unqueeny bees
get ready for another season of mindless work,
and I'm writing this ridiculous poem, shirking
a list of chores that may or may not be dictated
by gender requirements, the whole thing instigated
by the idea that roses are red and gender is blue, or,
you know, kinda fluid, but sticky, like super glue.