You should write a poem about space cars, they sound totally cool. Think about it; rocket-cars transporting astronauts to space-work and rocket-minivans transporting their wives to space-pilates class. Space-cars man, that shit’s crazy.
Judging by the explanation you gave me, it seems to me that any poem can be construed to mean anything. Like, the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” could represent your Dad, the “rain” represents his raging alcoholism and love for bare-knuckle boxing your dog and the “sun” could mean it finally dawning on him that he loves dudes and his running away to Chile with Armando. You see? It all makes sense now that I made some vague connections and talked down to somebody in a holier-than-thou tone. Do you think I was born to be a poetry critic after all?
I’m just kidding, man. I don’t mean to make fun. I guess I just never got poetry, you know? What makes it good? Are the best poets the ones that can bury any sense of meaning under layer upon layer of obtuse metaphors?
Actually, why don’t you get Mr. Kooser to answer me, since you’re so positive you’re going to be meeting him? I honestly couldn’t imagine him letting some random fan into his house, but you’ve certainly impressed me with your resourcefulness thus far. I’m sure you’ll be able to lure him in with the old “if I spend $100 dollars on you, you’re morally obligated to be my friend” trick. Then, he’ll give you all his poetry secrets and you’ll get to California and write the classic American epic and make millions of dollars, all thanks to the generous gift by your friend Pete.
But more than likely he’ll just call the cops on you. Just make sure to not get busted for anything but trespassing.
I called a locksmith to try to get into your room (changing the lock, very mature) but he said there was still something on the other side of the door that was keeping him from opening it.
A. What the fuck did you do?
B. How do I fix it?
There’s a wretched smell coming from in there and I can’t do anything about it but fill my apartment with scented candles. The apartment smells like the collection of gifts that I got for every girl that I knew well enough to feel obligated to buy a gift for but not well enough to know what they actually like.
I wish Cheryl and you got along better. You know, if we get married (oh no, I hope I didn’t jinx it), you’d have to be best man, which means you’d be forced to say something nice about her in your speech. You can’t put too much blame on her for the untimely death of James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents, the note you left for her was one of your poems. I doubt she understood it.
Speaking of the “poet’s bender,” I was cleaning out my closet and found a poem you wrote during that week of debauchery. Here it is (edited without the dots and slashes, for legibility purposes):
SHOTS YOU FUCKING BITCHES
Peter’s a pussy, alliteration=truth
Check out the rack on that specialty pie
No leave? We’re only not seeing!
Oh man, I still feel like I’m recovering from that.
If you’re in jail by the time you get this, be someone’s bitch or kill someone the first day. That’s the only way you’ll be protected.
I’ll try to save up in case I have to wire you bail money, but Cheryl yelled at me sending you money last time. I’ll see what I can do.
For the love of God take care of yourself.