Poetic Reflections: hatitude

Finally, a discussion on one of my favoritest topics: Hats! There are all types, as many as there are varieties of birds. But don’t quote me on that because I haven’t counted either. What? Speak up! I hate when my mind mumbles. Does yours ever do that? Extremely irritating. Some people have heart murmurs. It’s probably just as annoying. Okay, I’m listening! Sorry, you’ll have to talk louder! And enunciate! I can’t understand your gibberish! You’re right, it might help if I quit shouting. This isn’t about hats you say? Well then, I must’ve misunderstood. That’s easy to do when deciphering brainwaves. They get crossed like wires then muddled or fried. Which is why I seldom follow my own advice. It’s rather unsound. Plus I like to think for myself, even if I fail to pay attention. I guess that makes me ill-advised.

If this isn’t about hats, I’d best get on with writing a poem. There’s no point in my lingering to make statements that have nothing to do with jester caps, berets, stovepipes, brims or bowlers. Who would bother listening? Certainly not I.

And another thing: I really must speak to myself sometime about slapping titles up there that are apt to confuse. It’s bad enough if you’re confused. If I’m confused, forget it. There will be no making sense of anything whatsoever on this page. And if nothing makes sense, the words can simply run amok and merge together until the page turns black. Without the white, you’ll be staring at the opposite of a blank page! I suppose you thought that would be a page with something on it, didn’t you? A common misconception. A black page has everything on it — so much that you can’t see anything in particular!

Writing is a delicate balance of the black and the white. At some point, for some reason, you’re expected to make sense. Unless you choose to write nonsense, which makes a lovely excuse for this being as vacuous as most of the prattle I rattle off before writing these poems. I start typing and the words roll from my tongue through my fingertips. Sometimes they dribble or drool and my keyboard starts smoking, but never mind that. There must be a connection between hand and mouth. Oh yes, it’s called a neck. And shoulders. I wouldn’t want you to think I was missing those. A set of arms also, since my hands couldn’t be scurrying around loose! (Correction: They might were this a horror story. One might’ve freed the other so they could both escape, leaving a red trail of fingerprints. As well as an author who would have to learn to type with her nose!)

My writing, on the other hand — or nostril — is delicately unbalanced. It has a mind of its own and does what it pleases. When I say it speaks for itself, I mean that literally. Do not be deceived, however. The unruliness of my writing is cunningly calculated; premeditated. In its defense, please note that there is a difference between knowing the rules and deliberately breaking them or not knowing the rules. My writing knows what it’s doing. Therefore, despite appearances to the contrary, it isn’t criminally insane.

Grrrr, I’m getting déjà vu. Now I’ll have to worry I’ve said all of this before. I hate that!

My brain is muttering again. Eh? All right, all right, back to the poetry. Something to do with “hatitude”, whatever that is. Maybe it’s something to do with hate. I guess I’ll write a poem about that too, just in case. And whatever else spills out. I’m really only the janitor, left to swab and blot the ink so there actually is a little white space between.

What’s that? Why don’t I cease babbling then? I thought you’d never ask. Not you. My cerebrum. This is all so confusing. Let me just shut this thing off. There. Much better. Now I can hear myself think. Except I can’t think because I shut off my brain. Houston, we have a paradox!

No matter. I don’t need to think to write. It just sorta happens. Wait for it. Wait for it . . .