Liberal Arts? More like Conservative Arts.
The most heartbreaking thing anyone's ever told me (besides "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today."):
"Don't be yourself. Write for the grade."
Guess who said it? The Dean of Students.
Quick overview of what I've been through at school: nine different roommates -- three of which I actually didn't mind -- being chased by a drug dealer, kicked out of two dorm halls, five visits to the Dean, an interrogation by the campus police because some 27-year-old retarded kid thought I was prank-calling him, one required trip to the campus psychologist (who I definitely had some fun with), the Farmhouse fraternity threatening my life. I had my computer confiscated for cracking internet porn sites, a shouting match with two professors, an argument with the English Department Head, the campus police pulling me out of my fiction writing class because one of the characters in my story said FUCK, a professor calling me a "piece of shit" at a poetry reading, and another professor telling me I couldn't read my poem "Fat Stripper" at the poetry reading.
I read that motherfucker anyway. Right after "Good-Looking Midget."
People think I write the things I write, say the things I say, act the way I act because I want a reaction. Truth is I'm just being honest to myself. If I write about a fat stripper or good-looking midget, it's because it's what caught my eyes, what compelled me to sit down and punch the keys. Tasteless stuff? I don't think so. Certainly not anymore tasteless than the shit that earns As in my poetry class -- the he-dumped-me poems, the I'm-not-pretty poems, the I'm-here-and-queer poems, the I-love-me-for-me poems.
And the fucking nature poems. The stilted language. The overkill on description. The talkiness. And I don't even consider myself a poet. I have been made to hate poetry by my professors and peers.
Poetry is like taking a huge shit. The hugest shit you've ever taken, and you're so impressed with it and you want to show everybody but nobody wants to see it. That's fucking poetry. Shit.And so here I sit, up to my eyes in everybody else's shit and some of my own and I have to smell it and put my hands it and do it all with a smile. And I can't even shit the way I want to.
This brings me to now. I received my poetry portfolio back today with an Incomplete on it. Why? Because my poem, 9/12, a short little play on obesity in America contained the words "fat girl" in it. My professor, the child, said it came off as a "put down piece." I told him it was -- in a sense. He scrawled back, in his second-grade handwriting, that I'd have to write another poem to turn in or I'd take an F. F for fat girl. Here's a copy of the poem below. The poem isn't good, by the way (what do you expect when we're churning them out twice a week and I have to balance class and my script, the most important piece of writing I've ever done, with this?):
9/12
A fat girl
eats ice cream
in the shade.
Her tear ducts break
when I tell her what
happened:
terrorists flew
a vegetable into
the food pyramid.
Nothing good survived.
She drops her sugar cone.
What a tragedy.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is a putdown piece. An incomplete while the ol' I-got-dumped-again-he-fucked-my-friend earns an A. This professor, by the way, is the one who failed me for tardies, who told me I couldn't read Fat Stripper. And no, I don't have a fat fetish. It's just so easy to notice large women when you go to school in Kentucky.
Wrapping up here: I'll have to write something else. My next poem for class is due today. I shouldn't fuel the fire, but I'll be goddamned if I wasn't inspired. I didn't even have any trouble writing this next piece in the required format (5-7-7-5 syllabic verse, or some shit like that). I need a title though.
Your PhD means shit –
something you masturbate with.
Doctor, mister, missus. Kid.
Who are you again?
You’re a weak handshake –
A wiener at a cocktail
party, dipped in insecuri-
ty. How’s the wine taste?
Frame all the degrees
You can. Ignore the reject-
ions in your bottom drawer.
Self-publish a heart
nobody cares to
hear beat. You’re good enough to
teach. Chalkboard king. Reign over
small desks. You’re the best.
I had a lot of fun writing that. Also, I realize blogs are a lot like poetry -- masturbatory shit -- so I don't expect you to read this far. Thanks if you did. I was going to put something after this, something that killed my spirit for a month, but I'll put it at the beginning now.
Till whenever.
"Don't be yourself. Write for the grade."
Guess who said it? The Dean of Students.
Quick overview of what I've been through at school: nine different roommates -- three of which I actually didn't mind -- being chased by a drug dealer, kicked out of two dorm halls, five visits to the Dean, an interrogation by the campus police because some 27-year-old retarded kid thought I was prank-calling him, one required trip to the campus psychologist (who I definitely had some fun with), the Farmhouse fraternity threatening my life. I had my computer confiscated for cracking internet porn sites, a shouting match with two professors, an argument with the English Department Head, the campus police pulling me out of my fiction writing class because one of the characters in my story said FUCK, a professor calling me a "piece of shit" at a poetry reading, and another professor telling me I couldn't read my poem "Fat Stripper" at the poetry reading.
I read that motherfucker anyway. Right after "Good-Looking Midget."
People think I write the things I write, say the things I say, act the way I act because I want a reaction. Truth is I'm just being honest to myself. If I write about a fat stripper or good-looking midget, it's because it's what caught my eyes, what compelled me to sit down and punch the keys. Tasteless stuff? I don't think so. Certainly not anymore tasteless than the shit that earns As in my poetry class -- the he-dumped-me poems, the I'm-not-pretty poems, the I'm-here-and-queer poems, the I-love-me-for-me poems.
And the fucking nature poems. The stilted language. The overkill on description. The talkiness. And I don't even consider myself a poet. I have been made to hate poetry by my professors and peers.
Poetry is like taking a huge shit. The hugest shit you've ever taken, and you're so impressed with it and you want to show everybody but nobody wants to see it. That's fucking poetry. Shit.And so here I sit, up to my eyes in everybody else's shit and some of my own and I have to smell it and put my hands it and do it all with a smile. And I can't even shit the way I want to.
This brings me to now. I received my poetry portfolio back today with an Incomplete on it. Why? Because my poem, 9/12, a short little play on obesity in America contained the words "fat girl" in it. My professor, the child, said it came off as a "put down piece." I told him it was -- in a sense. He scrawled back, in his second-grade handwriting, that I'd have to write another poem to turn in or I'd take an F. F for fat girl. Here's a copy of the poem below. The poem isn't good, by the way (what do you expect when we're churning them out twice a week and I have to balance class and my script, the most important piece of writing I've ever done, with this?):9/12
A fat girl
eats ice cream
in the shade.
Her tear ducts break
when I tell her what
happened:
terrorists flew
a vegetable into
the food pyramid.
Nothing good survived.
She drops her sugar cone.
What a tragedy.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is a putdown piece. An incomplete while the ol' I-got-dumped-again-he-fucked-my-friend earns an A. This professor, by the way, is the one who failed me for tardies, who told me I couldn't read Fat Stripper. And no, I don't have a fat fetish. It's just so easy to notice large women when you go to school in Kentucky.
Wrapping up here: I'll have to write something else. My next poem for class is due today. I shouldn't fuel the fire, but I'll be goddamned if I wasn't inspired. I didn't even have any trouble writing this next piece in the required format (5-7-7-5 syllabic verse, or some shit like that). I need a title though.
Your PhD means shit –
something you masturbate with.
Doctor, mister, missus. Kid.
Who are you again?
You’re a weak handshake –
A wiener at a cocktail
party, dipped in insecuri-
ty. How’s the wine taste?
Frame all the degrees
You can. Ignore the reject-
ions in your bottom drawer.
Self-publish a heart
nobody cares to
hear beat. You’re good enough to
teach. Chalkboard king. Reign over
small desks. You’re the best.
I had a lot of fun writing that. Also, I realize blogs are a lot like poetry -- masturbatory shit -- so I don't expect you to read this far. Thanks if you did. I was going to put something after this, something that killed my spirit for a month, but I'll put it at the beginning now.
Till whenever.
posted by Jeff at 1:39 PM
3 Comments:
Good work. I hope you came up with a good title for the new poem. Sorry I couldn't help out.
wow... holy shit... turn it in with pride. Chalk Board King maybe? and i must agree with the most heartbreaking thing... thats so fucking depressing.
Dude, from the looks of it, your professor couldn't grade his way into Guantanamo Bay.
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