[ note: some letters, like this one, require immediate attention — which is fine by me, because, of course, I am here to help, day and/or night ]
Veronica from Northern California:
my son is gay but far worse I think she’s a poet and I am quite anxious for her. I know I am a worry wart but poets in their poor little poetry fantasy world are such a sad sack full of bad laundry.
and people are cruel and hate! … rauan, I need to change my kid. what can I do? where can I send her?
thank you in advance
1) let’s start with Flannery: “He and the grandmother discussed better times. The old lady said that in her opinion Europe was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said the way Europe acted you would think we were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking about it, she was exactly right.”
2) This may be counterintuitive (because of that two-brained McSweeney/Goransson monster) but you should send your child to get an MFA in Poetry at the University of Notre Dame because maybe he/she/it will attend a Faith Fair and meet some handsome missionary who can fuck and blow the poet right out of them.
3) The bible, as you know, is totally against Poetry and knows (hallelujah! amen! barnyard Jesus!) thats poet aren’t going to heaven. (Mel Gibson, yes. Poets, no.) So it’s vital, Veronica, that your boy get right with Jesus. And I mean right away! (O, Jesus, our Lord and Savior. Our Shepherd. Weatherman. blah, blah.) There are places for this, I think, in Oklahoma.
4) When I was at college (o, Ithaca! o, Ithaca!) I stumbled one night upon, in the queer moon’s trembling shadows, a couple of poets reading Rumi and Yehuda Amichai to each other under an apple tree. And, well, I don’t need to tell you how repulsed I was. (I threw up in my mouth, for Christ’s sake).
5) Paul Muldoon, former Catholic, has a poem about a woman in a bar who goes home with a couple of mushroomy men (this is in Quoof) who fist fuck her until the dawn never comes. And this is just the tip. Poetry is hell, Veronica. And you should pray, pray, pray. And the Lord will come.
6) & back to Flannery now: She saw the man’s face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, “Why you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children !” She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest.
7) send your poor soul of a kid to Paris or Vienna or Bangkok (I hear that did A.D. a world of good) to indulge in poetry atrocities. and tell all your friends the poor soul’s working on a hospital ship floating up and down the horn of Africa helping other poor unfortunate wretches.
Glad I could help,
dear rauan 1 … is global warming making men more horny?
dear rauan 2 … how would I go about writing for htmlgiant?
dear rauan 3 … alt lit / ball-licking / tao lin … ?
dear rauan 4 … should we castrate certain male writers?
dear rauan 5 … is God’s match for me a poet-blowjob fiend?
Tags: Dear Rauan