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A Poem For Me

 

Here's a pretty flower.

Here’s a pretty flower.

i don’t know why posting something with an inflammatory title to a million twitter followers would look like a calculated plea for attention.

i don’t know why italics make random lines look like a poem, but they do.

i don’t know how many Vietnamese soft rolls to order, but i can make the hell out of some glass noodles with a little dark sweet soy, i’m telling you that shit is awesome.

i don’t know the way to new york, but I’m pretty sure i’ve got an app that can tell me.

i don’t know why i thought eschewing proper capitalization would make me look deep. yeah fuck you too, e.e. cummings.

I don’t realize how important the battery life on my iPhone is until I’m driving to New York, using the aforementioned app, and I”m suddenly somewhere in Delaware with no power and I’m pretty sure I left the car charger on the nightstand before I left and…oh, wait, nevermind, here it is in the glovebox.

I don’t remember the last time I wrote a poem that started every line the same way.

I don’t remember 9th grade English class. That’s probably why.

I don’t know the OED’s actual definition of “leitmotiv.”

I don’t know how to build a fanbase that will defend my every move as art you philistines are just too unenlightened to understand, but man I wish I did

I don’t know how to quit my day job.

I don’t know I’d actually want to.

I don’t know to apologize without making it look like your fault

I don’t know why that plugin isn’t 64-bit yet, but man that 32-bit bridge is buggy and I’m running low on RAM

I don’t know how to lactoferment pickles, but I want to learn

I don’t know how much bacon is in my fridge.

I don’t know how much bacon is in my fridge

I don’t know how much bacon is in my fridge

I don’t know if there’s a better way to waste nine minutes, but I’ve got this nagging suspicion that there is

 

 

 

 

Note: this is not about Dzokhar, or Amanda, or me. Read it again.

No, wait, it is about those things.