I recently discovered a delightful poem by David Kirby in Five Points, and thought I’d share a snippet of it with all of you:
… and you’d think that’d settle it, that the opera lovers
of Tallahassee would let go of their plow handles
and wipe their sweaty brows with their bandanas
and say, “Well, looky here, Ma, this newspaper
feller says he knows how to pronounce it, and he
ought to know, him being Eye-talian and all,”
but no, my update hasn’t been on-line for more
than fifteen seconds before someone writes…
You can read the whole thing here, and you should, unless you just hate poetry where the rhymes don’t jump right out and whack you across the forehead, which means you probably hate prose, too, which means you probably don’t read a whole lot of anything worth reading, which really ought to make you ask yourself, when you get right down to it, just what the hell you’re doing here in the first place.
