My bud Zen posted some of his poems, which are very thoughtful and, to me, evocative.

Uh, you have to click the link in the article there to get to his pomedome.

Anyway, I'm a horrendous poet. When I was in elementary school I thought I was pretty good at it, but that's when just getting the rhyme and meter right was enough to get an A.

I love to read poetry, and don't do it often enough. I love cummings, Hughes, and Dickinson. Some Whitman and Keats and others, but some of that's been hard for me. I bought some Borges, Neruda, Lorca and Thomas. Now that's some cool stuff. I've started buying poetry collections by peeps I've never heard of because, well, it feels like branching out.

One thing I've learned through this reading is that I don't know shit about poetry. I don't know what makes this stuff good poetry. I find that I truly enjoy the experience, whether it seems sad or happy or somewhere else on the spectrum, but I don't know why.

I know when I've tried writing poetry it has been, to my ear, complete trash. I don't even know what I'm trying to do except sound like the stuff I've read. I never arrive anywhere close.

Therefore I've decided to write a pome about how crappy my pomes are. And I'm not gonna capitalize anything or use punctuation, just to show how hip I am.

my pomes suck
by looney

my pomes
suck
like kirby
leaving little pieces
of dirt
wedged in the corner
attracting ants

noisy like
pots
pans
silveware
crashing loose in
an empty oil drum
rolling down
down the hill

they crash into
a group of
young people
who are smart
and young
and witty
and young
who understand pomes
but not mine

they hurt
either way
the drum
the pome
its the same when
they crash
all noise and
clamor and broken
bones
broken pomes
that still
still
suck

Well, there you have it folks. I'm gonna go on Monster.com and see if they have a section for Poet Laureate. Thank you, thank you very much.