Come Hither

Everyone wants information and there ain't none of that here.

I've got opaque, totally personal poems on offer that probably make no sense or lend any pleasure or interest to the reader. For me, that's what makes them useful, if not great- it's like a diary written in code (oops, now I've given away my secret). I go and look at other people's blogs all the time. And there are so many good ones, but mine just isn't one of those. I accept that, like I accepted being called dictionary when I was in middle school.

My friends don't check this blog (with one exception I had the honor of one friend with a lovely mind read my blog) to assess the temperature of my existential ranting or get my recipe for a blackberry mojitos (which are good, btw). In fact, one friend of mine was purportedly going to contribute to this blog, but she backed out, probably too embarrassed by the mission statement and her high school ties to me (notice that bimbos is plural- I should probably change that) and too turned off by the utter obscurity of it. It's like asking someone to hang their paintings in your own little private, dark cave that no one ever enters because they don't know it exists and even if they did they probably wouldn't go in anyway.

I like to think of this collection of aimless ramblings like a sinewy leg sheathed in a fishnet stocking beckoning from beyond the edge of a door opened onto an alleyway filled with moon light. You may or may not be tempted to see what the leg is attached to, and it may be that it's attached to nothing. It could be a sexy leg ruse, with a mechanical lever that a creepy old man manipulates behind said door. Or it could Marlena Dietrich's leg or that of a man with beautifully effeminate gams. The possibilities are rich. Why not check it out?