Monday, April 13, 2009

Pete's Easter 2K9

Similarly free of organized religion for this holiday cycle, I, like my brothers, did nothing particularly of note. Except for my trip to GulfStream racetrack and casino to catch the last day of horse races of the season. Nothing like gambling on sprinting human-ridden animals to capture the spirit of Easter! It was actually my first-ever trip to the horse track, so I did nothing but place piddling little bets on each race, trying to learn some of the ropes of figuring out who to bet on (I went to the track with a solid corps of fellow MFAers, all of whom are, again, similarly godless), and did okay; that is, I left the track with the same amount of money that I came in with. So, just "okay" enough to get into the "okay" portion of the spectrum-of-possible-racetrack-outcomes. I was placing such small bets that there was little chance that I'dve made any money. I was up $10 going into the last race, but neither of my horses worked out on that one; though, on some level it strikes me as more aesthetically pleasing to have left the track even than up ten bucks (though, now I kinda wish I had that dough, especially given my looming summer unemployment (is there a job in your neighborhood? Can I sleep on your couch while I work it?).

On Saturday, as a member of the miami poetry collective, I helped open and operate our first "Poem Depot" at the monthly art walk in the Wynwood neighborhood of Miami. We sold poems and another homemade journal to passersby, in order to raise enough money to produce another journal. It involved writing poems on the spot on topics of purchasers' choice. So, perhaps obviously, not every poem was solid gold, but I think the reaction was generally solid and we definitely made enough cash to put together another journal and do it again next week. Perhaps my crowning achievement was an Elizabethan sonnet (well, the pentameter was fudged, but it was close and the rhyme scheme was correct) about a genomist altering alleles and accidentally producing a new killer disease, but I don't have the memory to reproduce it here, so instead I provide a limerick on infidelity that I improvised out loud, and a picture of me looking like, if not a poet, than some kind of impostor at a typewriter:

There once was a poet name Pete
who met pretty girls on the street
they'd go to his truck,
lie in its bed, have a fuck,
but his wife they never did meet!


Blogger nate said...

So is there a rhyming dictionary out there for limerick writers (limericists?) that basically just has "uck" words?

I do like your impostor photo. Makes you look very much like a street academic.

4/13/2009 9:23 PM  

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