Aloha, readers, from the sandy shores of Dearborn, Michigan!


Before I get started on my latest intellectual rampage, I'd like to begin by saying something I know you're all thinking. Yes, I was on a poetry kick, and no, it's not permanent. As you faithful bloggies well know, this site is a great multi-tasker. Not only do you receive the nearly pyschotic intuitions I sit and develop daily, but also a poetic journey into my thought process. On that note, it's probably necessary for me to explain the poems that have been haunting your blog experience. I write poetry less for it's meaning than for it's beauty. Take it from me, the last person I want to know is some whack-job poetic analyst. I've had the pleasure to observe several of those people, on numerous occasions, and draw the same two conclusions after every episode. Either this person is clinically insane, or truly believes that they've discovered the Yamashita's Gold of poetry. Although there are plenty of numbers to support the first of my two groupings, most of my encounters lean toward the latter. There's always that one person, if not two or three, who thinks that they're ability to "analyze" poetry has made them the know-all-be-all of human existence. Unfortunately, I beg to differ. Now, I don't consider myself a poet, not by any means, but some liberties are going to be taken after you get a little comfortable in a certain genre. Needless to say, I write poetry because the sound of words mingled together in some mysterious flow of beauty is something that people find fascinating. I suppose that tends to be a tad more aesthetic than I mean it to be, but oh well. Personally, poetry loses all meaning when searching for meaning. Of course, there are points that every poet strives to make, and yes, they accomplish that magnificently, but the face value of the words alone is something to behold.

It's probably safe to assume that I've rambled for the past paragraph and have yet to make my point. Well, frankly, my point is this: in depth poetry is, well, an acquired taste. Much like caviar and cow testicles, it takes a little bit of time to get accustomed to the taste (if not the sheer thought of what you're actually eating). I can see a lot of you at home turning the thought of a cows testicle over in your mind, and I'm sorry for ever bringing it up, but there's a method to this insanity. Some people have been around the poetry "business" for a while. Sadly, these people have become so wrapped up in their own "intellectual" ability, that they fail to recognize the ordinary reader -- you and me. Sure, if you're into poetry and you spend hours on hours discovering the hidden meanings behind Tennyson, more power to you, but please remember that poetry can be loved by all. Some truth lies in that statement - somewhere - and hopefully I can dig it out, but until then, bear with me. Picture this: you and your spouse go to zoo. Is that too much of a stretch for your imagination? It is? Well, shucks, that's too bad. Anyway, you're at the zoo, and your significant other mentions how she loves the monkeys for their inhibited intelligence. You retort, saying that you love the monkeys because they're funny, and furry, and "do it" atop their monkey mountain. Both of you are right. And even though you're spouse believes the monkeys to be bright (because they made the realization that rocks and sticks have the uncanny ability to second as tools, way to go), you like them because they're cute. Face value, friends. It's not overrated, and it's crucial for you to avoid the assumption that it is. I know, the strange man giving candy away, telling you to look for the deeper meaning is pretty scary, but sleep with one eye open. Trust me, it helps.

The other day I saw a kid. Yes, believe it or not, a small human being. Walking down the aisle with his mother (or quite possibly his estranged nanny), the little guy grabbed a can off the shelf. Taking it in his hands, he stopped and let his mother go ahead. Then, after reaching in his pocket and grabbing a G.I. Joe, the kid sat him atop the can and rolled him around. You see, this child didn't see the can because it had delicious and nourishing brussel sprouts inside - he saw it because it was a can (or maybe an M1 Bradley, who knows). The point is that didn't bother to look and see what the can meant, and he knew that was ok. That's something we should take to heart when reading poetry. It's ok to skip looking for the deep and wondrous meaning of the poem, just look at the words, the rhythm. What harm can come of that? Hell, even the greatest poetry analysts had to start somewhere. People are drawn to poetry by the rhyme, the endless flow of words. People read poetry because a lot of it sounds pretty damn good. Plain and simple. Unfortunately for us, the sages of meaningless poetry, we sometimes stumble across the poem that seems to be absolutely worthless. These are the poems that the other demographic, the one that constantly makes fun of you because you're stupid, the one that thinks they're high and mighty because they can decipher the toughest poetic riddles, loves. My friends, just ignore that. Some day you'll get to that point, if you want it. For now, find no fault in the fact that you like poetry that sounds good.

Sometimes it's meant to be that way.