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 |   My 2nd blog. My spot for sharing my life, music, and writing with my friends. |
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Hello, Hello. Fancy seeing you here. I'll work on making this nice and pretty later. *  I also have a poetry blog, for those who dig poetry:
AND I have a mental health group with a monthly challenge:
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lay my hands on Heaven and the sun and the moon and the stars While the devil wants to fuck me in the back of his car ♡ * I will never make this pretty. |
I’m down to my last few days of Pursue the Horizon. I think I’m still behind by a few days, but I have seven days left, so I’m going to finish with seven of my must-have poems. My must-haves are ones I’ve read a million times and can’t get enough of, so obviously, e.e. cummings is going to be in there. Plus, a last ditch attempt to get Elle - on hiatus  to dig him.  ”somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond” e.e. cummings somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands This is one of my very favorite love poems. I think that it might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever read and I fell in love with it for that reason when I first read it, because who isn’t a hopeless romantic sometimes? I love so many parts of this poem that it’s hard to pick and choose my favorite. The comparison of this woman opening him up like the petals in spring, is just… awesome. It’s sweet in such a gentle way. I also love: the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses That’s a stellar line. He’s, like, super into this girl.  And then that last line, of course: nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands  So much love for that line. Bonus, La Dispute song named after this poem:[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| I don't know if I've seen any Jack Kerouac poetry yet, but I thought I'd throw one into the ring just in case. Of course, he's more known for his novel writing, like On the Road, which I'm sure most of us have read at one point or another. He also has some pretty cool poetry too though, so, here's one of those. “How To Meditate” by Jack Kerouac -lights out- fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous ecstasy like a shot of heroin or morphine, the gland inside of my brain discharging the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as i hap-down and hold all my body parts down to a deadstop trance-Healing all my sicknesses-erasing all-not even the shred of a "I-hope-you" or a Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought comes a-springing from afar with its held- forth figure of image, you spoof it out, you spuff it off, you fake it, and it fades, and thought never comes-and with joy you realize for the first time "thinking's just like not thinking- So I don't have to think any more" I'm not into meditation, but if I did mediate, it would be like this. If only meditating were like using heroin. Even though meditation doesn't do anything for me, this poem makes me feel pretty chill so sometimes I'll read it when I just want to feel heavy or something. What I like about Kerouac's poetry a lot is his word choices. I really like the "the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid)" bit in this poem. It's probably my favorite line. I also like "deadstop trance-Healing". That's a cool phrase. The end of this one is neat because it's like an oxymoron: thinking's just like not thinking- So I don't have to think any more This is actually the hardest part about meditation for me, because you are thinking, technically. You're thinking about focusing on relaxing, so surely there is some sort of thought process that goes into that, but you're also not thinking because what you're thinking about is nothing. It's.. weird, and hard to achieve, I guess. |
| "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices? I like this poem a lot because I think most of us could relate to it. There is such a disconnect between being a kid and being an adult. I mean, I could never figure out what was going on with my father when I was a child living under his roof. I just thought he was completely psychotic and he probably thought the same of me. I never thought about him waking up at 4:30 in the morning every day and working for 10 hours five days a week. I didn’t think about him going out in the freezing cold in a continuous cycle. I most definitely never thought of thanking him. I mean, that couldn’t have been further from my mind. This poem has the best descriptions. “blueblack cold” “banked fires blaze” “cold splintering, breaking” The imagery is super tight throughout. I also love the line: fearing the chronic angers of that house Anyone who lived in a house like that knows exactly what he’s talking about. No explanation needed. And then the last lines are just perfect: What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? |
| ”The Rose That Grew From Concrete” by Tupac Shakur Did u hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete Proving nature's law is wrong it learned 2 walk with out having feet Funny it seems but by keeping its dreams it learned 2 breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared! Yes, that’s rapper 2pac for you. I think that 2pac’s entire life was pretty tragic. I mean, he was born in East Harlem. Both of his parents were super active members in the Black Panther Party. He went to the Baltimore School for Arts and was into poetry, ballet, acting, etc… Everything’s cool, and then he moved to California with his family and legit from 1991-1996, just in that 5-year period, his life completely fell apart. I mean, he got famous, which is cool… but, damn, did the shit hit the fan quick or what? Like, so many lawsuits, shootings, assaults, a prison sentence? And then to just be shot in a drive-by and killed when he was barely 25? Yeah, shit hit then fan on the quick. Anyway, this poem was written before he was famous or anything. I think he’s talking about how he was expected to be a certain way because of where he was born and raised, but he surprised people by being, well, creative and stuff. He probably felt like the majority of kids from his neighborhood had the cards stacked against them from the beginning. They’re sort of forgotten about from jump street, so I can see why he wrote this poem and how he felt at the time. |
| ”Friendship” by Henry David Thoreau I think awhile of Love, and while I think, Love is to me a world, Sole meat and sweetest drink, And close connecting link Tween heaven and earth. I only know it is, not how or why, My greatest happiness; However hard I try, Not if I were to die, Can I explain. I fain would ask my friend how it can be, But when the time arrives, Then Love is more lovely Than anything to me, And so I'm dumb. For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak, But only thinks and does; Though surely out 'twill leak Without the help of Greek, Or any tongue. A man may love the truth and practise it, Beauty he may admire, And goodness not omit, As much as may befit To reverence. But only when these three together meet, As they always incline, And make one soul the seat, And favorite retreat, Of loveliness; When under kindred shape, like loves and hates And a kindred nature, Proclaim us to be mates, Exposed to equal fates Eternally; And each may other help, and service do, Drawing Love's bands more tight, Service he ne'er shall rue While one and one make two, And two are one; In such case only doth man fully prove Fully as man can do, What power there is in Love His inmost soul to move Resistlessly. __ Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side, Withstand the winter's storm, And spite of wind and tide, Grow up the meadow's pride, For both are strong Above they barely touch, but undermined Down to their deepest source, Admiring you shall find Their roots are intertwined Insep'rably. Lyn's a Witchy Woman  mentioned recently that I don’t like a lot of traditional poetry, and that’s very true. I’m definitely a free verser at heart, but I thought I’d share some of the form poetry that I do like, just to balance things out a little bit.I’ll admit, I am picky picky when it comes to form poetry. It has to be just so or I’ll pretty much hate it. Worst of all to me is when the rhymes in a poem feel forced. Like, the writer wanted to say one thing, but they said something else because it rhymed. That ruins the poem for me. The first Thoreau I read was Walden, which I believe I read for school at one point, but I really enjoyed it all the same. I read some of his poems later on, and “Friendship” is one that I thought was pretty awesome. I especially love the last two stanzas. I think they could even be a standalone poem themselves, but it was a fitting conclusion for this poem. And notice, the rhymes don’t read like a gun to their head.  |
This entry will totes catch me up. Now I just need to write like 25 poems to be caught up with GI100. No biggie. If you haven't read "Invalid Entry"  , you might want to. It's the introduction to this poem, though the two can standalone quite well. It might still be a good idea to read them in "order' or whatever. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "My Town" by Buddy Wakefield The first time my town saw the sky it sucker punched us in the throat left us breathless said, "I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you you'll make it up, the pain, you always do." Now my town only buys drowsy formula sky. Otherwise it gets too big, the sky, like when we were three before we realized: We have balls. The sky does not. Therefore, we have bigger balls than the sky. Please do not talk to us about being tea-bagged by upside down hot air balloons. Where rational conversation and big pictures are concerned we have no time for getting wrapped up. We are not little presents for your sky. We are just right. Far right. And cute like 3-year-olds, like the book about bunny suicides, cute like Old Yeller just 'fore he got shot in the rabies (a good actor, that dog). My town was born way off the mark. Sometimes we see it coming, the mark, so we shoot it with spit wads or precision-guided phallic symbols. Every time there is talk of war people give me reasons why their town will be bombed first. It's a souped-up sense of self importance, bucko. Everybody knows my town will be bombed first because once we planned the construction of a nuclear power plant right here in the same fields where our military children now carry out covert orders to keep the word dumb alive. Christianity has a hard time workin' here, makes us believe that even when we are alone someone is watching us and judging us. Now we're all narcissists. We have a habit of giving other people's gifts to ourselves. But at least our children still get their confidence booster shots, while our fathers perform voice reduction surgery to keep our please for help mime-sized, while our mothers are bending infinity in half so that our families can continue to talk in circles, while we all burn our tongues when we drink hot cocoa for the same reason everybody here wants to hug the ocean, because it's just so much. My town knows that there is something so big inside of all of us we have to suck just to distract you from being directly overwhelmed by our real power, the kind of power that makes you smile. Everybody knows that smiling is for girls, the gays and certain kinds of fish who are smiling by accident. The shortcuts my town has taken have saved us so little time gotten us so far ahead of ourselves we've actually fallen behind. Would have been better off learning to herd turtles into bomb shelters, on a moment's notice, giggling at the fact that we will all now die and it'll happen so fast we will have never been anything but really cute like our three-year-olds who use folding chairs to beat lambs within inches of their lives. My town is inches tall. It's why the sky looks down on us wants to tell us something like grow up or reach up or look up and watch me winking. I'm trying to talk to you. Opening stanza look familiar? Seriously, those opening lines are super strong, right? The first time my town saw the sky it sucker punched us in the throat But I love the opening stanza in its entirety. I wouldn't change a thing about it. I love the, "I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you" part. And then it goes straight into... Now my town only buys drowsy formula sky. That line is a perfect example of why I love Buddy Wakefield. It's like, I know exactly what he's saying and how it's connected to the lines before it, but I would never think to say something like that in one of my poems. It just... wouldn't cross my mind. Even if I had the same first stanza written, I'd never think of that line to start the second. It wouldn't be Wakefield if there weren't some humor in there. Tea-bagged by upside down hot air balloons? I'll accept that. cute like Old Yeller just 'fore he got shot in the rabies Shot in the rabies? Another awesome wording choice. As I mentioned in the previous entry, growing up in a small town, I get both of these poems. I know what it's like to feel like the world is really, really small-- or like you're really small and insignificant in it. I think that's why the part about everyone saying their town would get bombed first is so important to the poem. It is a form of self-importance, and I've actually heard people do this. Like, "my town has unmarked government buildings" and stuff like that. It's just... cool because it's relevant. I love that part. Just some other parts I like... But at least our children still get their confidence booster shots, while our fathers perform voice reduction surgery to keep our please for help mime-sized Confidence booster shots.for the same reason everybody here wants to hug the ocean, because it's just so much It is so much. My town is inches tall. It's why the sky looks down on us Am I wearing on anyone yet? I can't be the only one in love.  |
| I know I'm pushing Buddy Wakefield down your throat at this point, and I'm okay with that. I got his book, Living For A Living , and it's amazing. It's not just you guys, I've been shoving him down everyone's throat if they come too close. So, what I'm going to do now is type up a couple poems from his book that I really like. They're actually a set of poems, like, they go together. It started with one complete poem and then he added an introduction. But then, the introduction part was so well-received that he uses it as a standalone poem now sometimes when he's performing. Because he uses both of them as standalone poems... they're going to be Days 19 & 20. So, here is the introduction to a poem that turned into an individual poem... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "My Town Intro" by Buddy Wakefield My town is cute like a bumper sticker like when Christians sport POWER OF PRIDE bumper stickers. What is it you don't understand about pride being a deadly sin? My town is cute like GOD BLESS AMERICA bumper stickers. Judging by our excessive luxuries, those stickers really work. Now if we can just get God to bless the whole world. Alix Olsen's bumper sticker reads I LOVE MY COUNTRY. I JUST THINK WE SHOULD START SEEING OTHER PEOPLE. But my town doesn't see other people. We're just too cute like the difference between what we say and what we do like the fact that violence in any form is sanctioned by the government as criminal or insane unless they're the ones who commit it. My town is cute like people who still shop at Wal-Mart and claim to be patriotic. Stop it. My town is cute in the way we were about the gays fuckin' up our family values and the sanctity of marriage yet we still let our children watch television shows like Wife Swap, The Bachelor, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, American Idoltary and Fox News. My town is so cute that -- check this out -- once, six years ago, there were some brown people ((i}boogity boogity), they attacked two of our tallest buildings and killed a shitload of our innocent citizens, kinda like we did in Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama, El Salvador, Tanzania, Mozambique, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Hiroshima, Philippines, Kosovo, Bolivia, Angola, Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Dresden, Dominican Republic, Cuba, Haiti, Indonesia, East Timor, Cambodia, Iraq, (what the fuck are we doing with Israel?) and my cute town pretends we never saw it [or had it] coming so in a perpetual attempt to save cute face we've waged a war on terror about as effective as the war on drugs. My town is cute when we wage these wars in the name of God. As many as 20% of the polar bears on the Northern Ice Cap are hermaphrodites due to PCBs being dumped into the ocean. You won't hear about that shit on the news because it's too cute, like a wolf giving birth through its penile canal (True). My town is cute like a 300lb tumor manifesting hair and teeth inside of it grown from the body of a 210 pound agoraphobic woman, cute like competitive poetry, the history of Scientology, plastic surgery, and refined sugars, cute like a man swallowing an 8-ball of cocaine and then jumping from a 5-story building to escape police, getting up and running away from it all. Y'all, this this is a true story: The first time My Town saw the sky it sucker punched us in the throat left us breathless said, "I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you you'll make it up, the pain, you always do." And yes, you got that right before, this was originally the introduction to a poem called "My Town" which I'm going to post after this one. The first time I read this, I was like, damn, Wakefield, you're preachy, followed immediately by, but, baby, you can preach to me any time. Seriously, I fucking love this poem. I can't believe he ever thought it couldn't stand alone on its own. I guess for some background, Wakefield grew up in Baytown, Texas and he talks about this when he performs the poem live. Baytown is within the Houston metropolitan area, so.. near a super big city, but it only has like 70,000 people there (now), which is probably like 15-20K more than were there while Wakefield was being raised there. I think there's something about small towns. I mean, where I grew up... I shit you not, there were like.. 15,000 people total. I mean, it's part of a bigger area with nearby towns, but even with the combined population of all those towns... it's still tiny. Just to give you an idea, I looked up the democratic primary results from my old town this year, and 52 people voted. Like, 52 people total.  I got sidetracked. My point is, small towns are... unique. They're very small in every sort of way. I sincerely feel for people who live in the same town for their whole life because they have to be missing out. I mean, I moved to a fairly major city and when I went back home, my friends wanted to know everything like I was some sort of world traveler. If I had to pick a theme for this poem... it would be hypocrisy, for obvious reasons. I don't need to analyze this one. You can all read. It's straightforward. Easy peas. But, the message and all that isn't what I love about Wakefield. He's just quirky af and his language is right up my alley. Like, using the word "shitload" in the middle of a poem? It's just so in line with my style. I love all the weird, quirky things he throws in, like American Idoltry.  The condescending tone... I mean, the word "cute" is almost intrinsically condescending. I mean, unless you're talking about the way someone looks, and even then... It just starts out so condescending: My town is cute like a bumper sticker. I love the nastiness of these lines: My town is cute like a 300lb tumor manifesting hair and teeth inside of it grown from the body of a 210 pound agoraphobic woman And then obviously, that last stanza is just a killer. You'll see it again in the next entry, because is the part that leads directly into the "actual" poem. So, I'll go add that now...  |
Hey, everyone. What's up? I'm still catching up, but only one more entry after this one and I'll be good. I'm using a Tony Hoagland poem again, and tagging Choconut  here because she liked the last Hoagland poem. You might like this one too, Rachel. The poem is called "A Color of the Sky" from What Narcissism Means to Me. The reason I chose this poem is because... it's a really good poem? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "A Color of the Sky" by Tony Hoagland Windy today and I feel less than brilliant, driving over the hills from work. There are the dark parts on the road when you pass through clumps of wood and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean, but that doesn’t make the road an allegory. I should call Marie and apologize for being so boring at dinner last night, but can I really promise not to be that way again? And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing in what certainly looks like sexual arousal. Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail; the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves are full of infant chlorophyll, the very tint of inexperience. Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio, and on the highway overpass, the only metaphysical vandal in America has written MEMORY LOVES TIME in big black spraypaint letters, which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back. Last night I dreamed of X again. She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets. Years ago she penetrated me but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I never got her out, but now I’m glad. What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle. What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel. What I thought was an injustice turned out to be a color of the sky. Outside the youth center, between the liquor store and the police station, a little dogwood tree is losing its mind; overflowing with blossomfoam, like a sudsy mug of beer; like a bride ripping off her clothes, dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds, so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene. It’s been doing that all week: making beauty, and throwing it away, and making more. During my public speaking class last semester, we had to do an introduction speech and use a few different things to express who we were or what we liked. A lot of people talked about music, pets, sports, etc... I talked about Led Zeppelin and read a Hunter S. Thompson quote and an excerpt from this poem. The part that I read for my class was: What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle. What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel. What I thought was an injustice turned out to be a color of the sky. I read that part for them because it's pretty much the climax of the poem and it rolls really well off the tongue. I thought it might give a good idea of what the poem is about and I still think it does. It's not my favorite part of the poem, but it wouldn't have really been appropriate for me to read my favorite part, which is the part right before that: Last night I dreamed of X again. She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets. Years ago she penetrated me but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I never got her out, but now I’m glad. Yeah, that might not have gone over as well. But it's such an amazing stanza.I know Cinn mentioned this in her Hoagland entry, but his opening lines are so good. This one in particular, I think about all the time. I live in a windy city, you could say I live in THE windy city, so when I'm out and about, I always think of this line: Windy today and I feel less than brilliant. I also love the line at the end of the first stanza: but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.I can't really break down the parts I like from a poem like this. I like all the parts, so I'd basically just be repeating the entire poem if I tried to. But anyway, there's another Hoagland entry down.  |
| I'm back to Buddy Wakefield today because I love him so endlessly. Hey, Elle - on hiatus , you might like this poem! You liked the first one of his, anyway. "Invalid Entry" The poem I'm using today, and there are so many of his I could have used, is "We Were Emergencies". I picked this one because it was the first Wakefield poem I read and I really loved it, so, someone else might too... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "We Were Emergencies" by Buddy Wakefield We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost. But tonight let us not become tragedies. We are not funeral homes with propane tanks in our windows lookin’ like cemeteries. Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go. Let go. Tonight, poets, turn your ridiculous wrists so far backwards the razor blades in your pencil tips can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside. Step into this with your airplane parts move forward and repeat after me with your heart: I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself. Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did. Go slow. I’m new to this, but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping. I have realized that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it, that we are not tragedies stranded here beneath it, that if my heart really broke every time I fell from love I’d be able to offer you confetti by now. But hearts don’t break, y’all, they bruise and get better. We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You call 9 – 1 – 1. Tell them I’m havin’ a fantastic time. Wakefield doesn't like stanza breaks, sorry, folks. There is so much I love about this poem and my favorite part changes all the time. Of course, on the first read, this was the part that stood out:Step into this with your airplane parts move forward and repeat after me with your heart: I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself. Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did. Go slow. I’m new to this, but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping. And that definitely is still one of my favorite parts, but it isn't my favorite part after my fiftieth time reading it. Now, my favorite part is: I have realized that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it, that we are not tragedies stranded here beneath it I just really, really love those lines. And of course, the entry wouldn't be complete if we didn't hear Buddy Wakefield read the poem himself, so... [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
Well, I guess it's my turn to do some Hoagland! If you haven't checked them out yet, my two partners in crime, Fivesixer  and Cinn , have already written entries about Tony Hoagland. Here are their entries:Norb's - "Big Grab" by Fivesixer Ky's - "An Immoderate Description of the Person" by Cinn and "He-Who-Is-the-Subject-of-This-Poem" by Cinn So, of course check those out if you haven't already. Ky introduced me to Tony Hoagland in October of 2014. I only know this because it's in our private blog, not being I'm some sort of weirdo who remembers dates. I'm fairly surprised I hadn't read his stuff before, but I was always into like older Beat poets. I didn't start reading more modern poetry until somewhat recently, to be honest. I was in love with Tony Hoagland from the first poem I read of his. I'm 90% sure it was "How It Adds Up" that I read first. Ky might remember more than me, but that's the one I'm going to talk about today anyway because it's the first I remember reading. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "How It Adds Up" by Tony Hoagland There was the day we swam in a river, a lake, and an ocean. And the day I quit the job my father got me. And the day I stood outside a door, and listened to my girlfriend making love to someone obviously not me, inside, and I felt strange because I didn’t care. There was the morning I was born, and the year I was a loser, and the night I was the winner of the prize for which the audience applauded. Then there was someone else I met, whose face and voice I can’t forget, and the memory of her is like a jail I’m trapped inside, or maybe she is something I just use to hold my real life at a distance. Happiness, Joe says, is a wild red flower plucked from a river of lava and held aloft on a tightrope strung between two scrawny trees above a canyon in a manic-depressive windstorm. Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it—, And when you do, you will keep looking for it everywhere, for years, while right behind you, the footprints you are leaving will look like notes of a crazy song. First, I just want to say that there's something to be said for introducing people to an artist of any sort and then having them fall in love with that artist. Like, it connects you in some way. See: "Immortal to Me" by Cinn . It's not just saying, "Ah, I really like this poet so I'm going to try to get other people to like him too." It's the thought that goes into handpicking a poet for someone with the idea that the person is truly going to love them. I think that's really special.But, let's get to the poem... Like Norb said in his entry, one of my favorite things about Tony Hoagland is the way he can take an ordinary, everyday situation and turn it into poetry... and in such a raw and honest way. The first six lines of this poem are at least in my top five lines from any poem ever. There's just something about them that really get to me. Ever since I first read them, they've been sort of stuck in my head. Sometimes they'll just pop up while I'm writing an economics paper and I'm like, why. That's how Hoagland IS though. His poems will just come to mind at the most random times, specific lines that just dance around your head. It happens to me all the time. I can't even pick favorite lines from this poem. It's like, a 5 out 5 for me from beginning to end. It's a 6 out of 5, really. It starts on such a strong note, like, the hook is ridiculous. And then you get to the end and the last three lines are also insanely good. Basically, on a scale of one to five, I rate this poem "ridiculous". I'm still a few days behind in Pursue the Horizon, but I'm going to just use Buddy Wakefield and Tony Hoagland to catch up, which should be easy peas. |
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I'm still so confused. How did they get to senior-level finance with so little know-how. I don't get it. 
People definitely tend to jump straight to the worst conclusion when any problem arises, which is why you so frequently hear, "My computer is broken!" when there's really a simple fix. 
Just why. It's so gross. We need to get you some personal finance help! This is only tangentially related and not a statement on you, but one of the nonprofits I work with consists of me making budget plans for people who were recently homeless and have just gotten back on their feet. A lot of the people I work with have only been at their job for less than a month or been in an apartment for a week or two. My role is to gather all of their financial information and then consult with them on their bills, disposable income, purchases, and stuff like that. It's shocking to see the financial decisions people make after just being homeless. I'm like, dude, you were just homeless 2 weeks ago. 
I have seen so much of the disasters it has caused with some people. I have in the past been unconsciously roped into financial situations that were most unpleasant and having to make sensible plans to unravel them.