Posted in Almost Dorothy, Squinny

Almost Dorothy Sits On Poems

My BFF Squinny made me real. Not sure how but she did. Not sure why but she said don’t ask cause I won’t tell. Not sure if I’ll last but she said nothing lasts forever. Not even Santa or our relationship, she said, will last forever ever. I figulated that since Squinny rose from the dead she must be smart and can probably make me real. I imagine anything is possible when I’m with Squinny. That’s why I enrolled in a literature class instead of the Fashion Police Academy. Watch out Joan Rivers. I’m gonna learn how to dungeon dragon you like Nicki Minaj.

Almost Dorothy | First Day of School | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Ma told me we’re going to therapy but she dumped me off at school instead. I was pissed because I’m in love with my therapist. He’s gay. Anyway, on the first day of class my teacher asked us a stupid question. What is a poem? I told her, “I am a poem.” She called me a jerk and told me God would punish me. In the meantime, she said, sit here. So I did.

What is a poem? | Photo by Neil de la Flor

My teacher said that Jericho Brown said “words manipulated into music make a poem.” Then she said Sandra Simonds said “a song is where every beat is perfectly measured—a poem that is perfectly timed and counted like clockwork—this is not for me because I am already aware of time—I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me.” I told the teacher that Simonds and Brown must be high or hijinkers or meat heads or liars. I am a poem, I said, again. Enough said.

Almost Dorothy |Essay | Photo by Neil de la Flor

The teacher said we had to write an essay. The guy behind me was like WTF is up with my horns. I told her I had to pee super hard and was about to wet my skirt. She gave me permission and said I could go. So I did. I sat on the sink and tried to pee real hard. But I don’t have any plumbing. Not even a hole.

Almost Dorothy | Sink | Photo by Neil de la Flor

When I got back to class, everyone was quiet and writing like mad crack head matters. They wrote as if their life depends on poetry. Wrote as if the words they put down would save them from something super supernatural. I just sat at watched the other students write. Write and write. I watched the big boys and girls manipulate words into music. Sonoic boom. I watched them write essays where every beat is perfectly measured—every sentence perfectly timed and counted. I counted their strokes like clockwork oranges. I watched them run their hands across the page like deranged tarantulas.

Almost Dorothy | Sits on Poetry| Photo by Neil de la Flor

This is not for me, I thought, because I am already aware of time, of the orange clock ticking. Tock. Tock. I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me anymore. So I sat on my ass and let the bullet trains run on time.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, The Potty Mouth Interviews

Jericho Brown: Please

Jericho Brown | Pretty in Pink | Photo by Stephanie Mitchell/Harvard University News Office

Diana Ross is Jericho Brown’s zodiac sign. He also says he’s a liar and likes to squat and burpee. Need I say more. If you don’t believe me, read on. Please. It’ll change your life. In case you don’t already know, Jericho Brown is the Mayor of New Orleans. Well, not really, but he was the mayor’s speechwriter. Now Jericho Brown is the poet who makes me want to be a better Wonder Woman. His book Please is way better than really good sex–well, at least as good as really good sex. It’s the kind of book that hurts. It makes you shut up and really listen to the music. I promise I’ll shut up in a moment and let you read my Potty Mouth Interview with Jericho. Ready? Go.

Almost Dorothy: Hi Jericho, I wrote down a set of questions before I read your book. I thought I was smart, a pre-cog, but I’m not, so I wrote new questions. I ♥ Please. It made the sun brighter when I read it nude sun-bathing. Please is musical, aural, gripping and vulnerable. I’m sure smart people have said much smarter things about your book than I ♥ your book, but when I got to the poem “Like Father”, I knew this book was made from the 4-letter word—l.o.v.e.

Jericho Brown: I’d love to see those earlier questions. I wonder what four-letter word they would suggest about a book you hadn’t read.

AD: I can’t use those words in public, smarty pants. My ma would lock my butt in my bedroom and handcuff me to the bedpost so fast your head would bobble. Jericho, tell me, what makes a poem and what makes a song?

JB: Words manipulated into music make a poem. Music makes a song.

AD: Eh? Were you born a poet or did you become one?

JB: Mad America hurt me into it. I was born gay and black to a father and mother who insisted on proper English but hit me dead in the mouth when I said things they didn’t want to hear. I was born

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