Finally, a poem...

DEAR FORUM:

Funny what some men sacrifice
out of sheer jealousy. Take my boyfriend.
It’s hard to find a man who will screw you
so thoroughly night after night. We’d a been fine
if the textile mill hadn’t closed. Though I didn’t want
to leave Hal, I thought my prospects
would be better in the city.
I didn’t know how right I was!

I found myself at the Uptown Lounge,
doing six shows a night. Things went great,
until some hometown boys showed up
one night, swaggering and drunk
on tequila. I caught Hal in the corner
of my eye and my g-string was wet
before I’d half stripped. But he didn’t take it
like I’d thought he would.

Funny thing is, he’d always liked me
to show off. First time we had sex
was after a party, with his cousin
still in the room. He put mirrors all over
his house. He even had me flashing
these titty rings he bought at passing truckers,
but when I jingled them his way
from the stage he just stared
like I was a leper. Then he got pouty
and bitter-looking, like some guy in a movie
who’s about to say, “Sorry, I mistook you
for somebody I used to know.”

He actually thought I’d quit.
I’m not sure what his problem was—
It’s a classy place: no neon sign outside
or disco ball over the stage, Swisher Sweets
for a dollar in the men’s room.

Since then I’ve pierced my tongue
and taken a girlfriend. Occasionally I blow
the manager, who’s hung like a bear.
At any rate, the tips are good; when I leave work
my purse is stuffed with bills.

what's in a name?

When I started this blog, over a year-and-a-half ago, which is eons in Internet time, I was really just noodling around. I took the name "klotho" from the Three Fates, with Klotho being the spinner of the thread of life.

Of course, that was before I read a terrible Stephen King book that features alien-like Fates who scurry around suspiciously in the vicinity of unexplained deaths. Don't even remember the name of the book.

So if anyone has any better title ideas for my blog, let's hear them. Anyone? Anyone?

spinning my wheels

I have been thinking about what is accomplished by the huge volume of language hurled onto the face of the Internet, and it strikes me that most of it is completely pointless. Or at least pointless for anyone except the poster. It reminds me of what has to be my favorite opening line of literary criticism ever. (Yes, I know what a geek I am if I have a favorite line of literary criticism. You should have heard me going on about post-modernism under the influence of morphine that time I ended up in the emergency room with a dislocated shoulder. But I digress.)

My favorite sentence appears in an essay by Susan Winnett: "I would like to begin with the proposition that female orgasm is unnecessary." It caught my attention to say the least. She goes on to explain that she doesn't mean to diminish its importance for any individual woman or her partner, just that it isn't a biological imperative.

It strikes me that most blog posts and comments fall into the same category: of no consequence to anyone other than the poster and, in rare cases, perhaps one other person. What purpose does the average smart-ass comment on fark.com actually serve?

Internet postings are the white-collar equivalent of tagging. In a few cases, the post might be elegant or witty enough to entertain or impress a few viewers, just like your better-than-average graffiti. But most of the time, it's nothing more than an annoyance, a little more noise in the urban scenery, an excess of static in a culture already overpopulated with data.

Does that stop me from posting, any more than the next person? Okay, so I certainly don't post any more than the next person; all you have to do is see the dates of my existing posts to figure that out. But the impulse is there, even if my time is generally spent otherwise. I am just as driven to write my name in water as anyone else.