Another Post In Which I Punish The Faithful

Write terrible poetry
burn it in a can
let it warm you
absorb the purified spirit of what you wanted to say
try again
burn again
breathe again
don't just pretty it up
tear it down
polish the wreckage
stomp the beauty
lie and cheat with honesty. 

I found a brochure for a local storytelling event. It was exciting before I got to the part where you have to pay at least $45 dollars for tickets. Hatred. Hatred. Why would they charge so much and if anyone uses 'the economy is bad' as an excuse then you should be living on borrowed time. Fuck the every bit of you. 

I want to be a storytelling scab. For a quarter of the price I will sit in a moderately comfortable chair and tell you anecdotes, like that one time when I got real drunk and that other time when I got drunk and... The plan is full fool proof. 

Since I won't be attending the storytelling event I must issue apologies. To DeCee Cornish, who is described in the pamphlet as "compellingly eloquent, street smart and side splitting," which was absolutely written by a white person, I am sorry that I will not be able to listen to your tall tales.

To Willy Claflin and Maynard, his moose puppet. Unfortunately, I will be unable to listen to your fractured fairy tales. Money is tight. 

To Andy Offutt Irwin, believe me I wanted to hear your "manic Silly Putty voice," though I suspect that desire would wane considerably within the first two seconds. 

To Motoko, I would have liked to hear your Japanese folktales, but you are too expensive for me.

To Eshu Bumpus, my dead Aunt Hilda always said, "don't ever trust a fucking jazzman," but I like to think she would've been wrong about you. Please know that even though I won't be able to attend, I will also be sick and poor.