Rage

Project Runway tomorrow night.

Time for Rage. I haven't Raged yet on the new Rage Dump. Of course no one will read the Rage, so it doesn't matter how angry I get and how much I display my hatred of the world.

I'm in a class that I loathe. It's a poetry class. I love poetry. If you have discovered this blog from my much more widely read poetry blog, it's pretty obvious that I like poetry. I write the stuff for chirst's sake. But I do not like nature poetry. There is something trivial about nature poetry. Unless a poem has a hint of the sinster, there is no point to reading it--at least this is my opinion for a world where educated, fat, happy, Americans have things to lament. I don't want to read a novel without conflict where only happy things happen because that's boring. Why in the hell would I want to read that sort of poem? Disgraceful!

Yesterday we sat outside (which I hate doing in class because it's the most gimicy way for a teacher to feel like they are being a good teacher) and read Whitman to each other. Yawn. We talked about how he was the voice of the people and how he revolutionized poetry. I can buy that he revolutionized American poetry, but I don't think he was the voice of the people and I don't think that means I have to like his work.