as promised

here it is. bad, yes, terribly bad. but amusing, yes again, most likely. as for how many commas i can cram into very short sentence fragments, i am tired of trying. ask the ann doty contest people whether they still feel good giving me that award after they read this. composed in a fit of passion, a violent spasm, i make no apologies (except the ones i already have) for its grace (or lack thereof) and so here it is. thanks to trent for the inspiration. i expect this one will get me the nobel prize, for, you know, glorification of the mongoose, or something.

The Mongoose Dance or
Wikki Tikki Tavi Shakes His Wittle Ass

I stood behind a table and saw you,
Ass up in the air, shaking with rage.
I see no snake, no writhing, no venom
But your own spittle flying from sharp-
Edged little incisors, paws
Hugged to your furry chest, nails bitten ragged,
Ragged, ragged. and then your legs pushed against the floor,
Hindquarters jumping, jumping
And i thought of what turned you on.
My own presence, un-nibbled nails,
Meticulous use of communal grooming,
Me and my own un-bouncing behind.
I need to get ahold of myself, find a way to
Scare off my own set of hooded cobra
Eyes, false signals of alarm. Two black dots rise up,
Threatening, dart at me with frightening speed.
But I don’t move. I trust in my mongoose.
I realize I’ve been hedging, keeping you from
Truth. But can I help if saw your animal instinct
Rise and give me proof,
Undisputable, that you were a werewolf indeed in your
Youth? Age has turned you into a wiser creature,
One that trembles with shame at my indifference, my
Callous behaviour: I took a short video of your dance,
Spread it over the internet, claimed the dance was my
Own invention. The choreographer gets the glory;
Brittney learned that the hard way. Still,
Covetous of your moves, knowing that a video won’t elec-
Trify me like your presence will, I have to ask:
Can you do that for me?
Can you shake that ass?
Can you teach me how to dust off the grass
Clippings from the seat of my pants?
Can you do that for me?

well, there it is. go on. indulge yourself. read it again. you know you want to.

in response to...

yes, in response! the exclamation point is warranted, because i am breaking my silence for a reason other than mere frippery. oh, i may bandy foolish words on this blog, but now i cease to jest. in other words, i make myself sound like an even bigger moron than i am in real life. as if that's even possible. but really...

in response to sarah, who wants to know why we write...

we just do. it is a part of the basic human urge to create. you live in a cave, you eat meat, you paint on the wall. or, closer to home, you go to a university, you live in a hovel, you complain about your conditions in writing because your roommates won't listen. okay. seriously though, i question why i write, and whether i can or not about a million times a day. i propose staving off the finality of answering the question by saying that we write for different reasons at different times. if we always wrote for only one reason than we would probably wear that reason out, even if it were true that we are all posessed beings that have no choice but to slave away perfecting long sequences of words.

in response to trent, who thinks that he can use big words and get away with it...

if all literature is epidiectic, does that mean that you then presume to cut out the past role of the epiphany in literature? if you are privileging one thing over another than you are necessarily setting yourself up for blind spots. i am not saying that i necessarily think that the epiphany is or was a good solution, and from your statements it appears that you think that the epiphany has been used as subject matter but not as the real base or argument. i would be interested in seeing your ideas on how to solve the problem. i have my own little hunches, but hunches they will remain until i expand them. until you explain your secrets, i shall have to conclude that your blog was composed in the good-spirited nature of sycophancy.

in response to mary, who makes top ten lists and tries to pawn them off on us...

top anything lists are never a good idea. besides, i disagree with yours heartily, and for no other reason than that it is not my own list.

and in response to aaron, who hides on his blog in silence (different from my own now very vocal self)...

you cat! hissing in the orchard! wrapping yourself in a shroud of fog! hiss away, i know your secret. i know, i know, i know... you've been rendered genderless. neutered, i believe it is. oh well. some cats hiss because they don't want others to know their secrets. well, you can stop hissing and post on your blog, because your secret's out pussycat.

secrets

this is just a teaser to make you talk to me, in case you are ignoring me for some reason. i just found out some very interesting information regarding myself and the mayhew contest. but that's all i'll say about that. want to know more, talk to me yourself. there.