Let Me Tell You Something

Now let me tell you something.

This is my blog, and I will blog about whatever I want, whenever I want. I will also not blog whenever I want not to blog.

I am a poet, and I often blog about poetry, but I will goddam well blog about pop music, or movies, or crime fiction, or candy canes, or hanging out with my friends, or what my twelve favorite brands of shoe polish are, or revolting bear embryos, or what Mighty Morphing Power Ranger I would be if I were a Mighty Morphing Power Ranger, if the mood should happen to strike me.

I will usually not blog about politics, but not because I think I shouldn't. Politics just depress me. Nevertheless, I reserve the right to blog about them whenever I want, should I decide that I can stand the anxiety I will inflict upon myself by doing so.

When I said "whenever I want not to blog" above, I was deliberately avoiding a split infinitive, but I will split infinitives if I feel like it. And I will avoid it when I feel like it.

I will delete old posts whenever the hell I want. I don't care who might have linked to them for whatever very important reason imagining that they would remain online forever.

Sometimes I go to my Netflix queue and rearrange the order of DVDs that won't come up for weeks, because I find it soothing. And I will blog about this soothing Netflix feeling if I want to.

I will divide all poetry into two polarized categories sometimes, and other times I will remark on how foolish it is to divide all poetry into two polarized categories. I will do it without guilt or shame.

I will namedrop if I can do it in a way that I can convince myself is "natural" and "unforced."

I will mention flarf if I want to, no matter how sick the entire universe, including me, might be of hearing the word. Flarf. Flarf. Flarf!

You know what? This post isn't even reactive to anything in particular. No one has said anything snarky to me recently, and this isn't directed at any specific person or persons. I just feel like being confrontational!

I probably will never send notices to the Buffalo Poetics list or wherever announcing what the last week's worth of posts on my blog have been about. But I reserve the right in case I change my mind.

I don't actually know the names of any of the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. Do they even have names?

Sometimes on my old Movable Type blog, I would go into people's comments in my comment box and correct their typos without them asking me, because I felt obsessively compelled to do it. If Blogger allowed me to do this, I would probably continue to do it.

I may very well delete this post once I realize how embarrassing it is.

I haven't read a new book of poetry in weeks.

Oh wait, yes I have--Del Ray Cross's Lub Luffly, from Pressed Wafer. It's terrific!

I will keep using the word "terrific" even though I know that people make jokes about poets who praise everything by saying "terrific." Usually they're New York poets. Why is that?

I also read Rob Halpern's tiny little chapbook Disaster Suite from a press called, I think, Vigilance Society. It's terrific too!

Along with his book, Del sent me a copy of the beautiful Joy Street Press reprint of John Wieners' The Hotel Wentley Poems! Yay! We all know how terrific that is. Seriously, I've wanted a copy for years.