In the month of March, which is a tough month because it is the end of winter and winter is bad, I discovered, in a file on my computer, 36 bad poems that I had written in 2017. I had no memory of writing these poems but I thought that they were good and I wanted to write more of them. I thought I would do 200, after Anthony Clark (who invented the 200 bad comics challenge a million years ago). To make it harder I said I would do them in two weeks. I almost did that but I did not thanks to a stressful trip that I took in the middle of this journey. Anyway, they have already been posted on this website, but here are all 200 poems I wrote in March together with the initial 36.
too sad to think I am too sad but I am writing poems poems don’t need thought
a poem about economic insecurity economic insecurity sucks there’s a moth always crushing your brain
tips for managing yr workload throw your task list into the garbage can no one will ever notice
a crisis for office managers dave said he couldn’t work Thursday but shirley booked Thursday off well, someone needs to be here
Can you believe this idiot did it. I thought he would never finish. Indeed it seemed like he never would. But in any case here are the final 48 bad poems.
conference for more than a week I stopped making these it was too much, to do this and imagine myself flying just one hour away to deliver a fifteen minute talk to a seven-person audience
excuse in an email “I’m sorry, I thought that I could that I could see past it, but it turns out I can’t, this stupid talk keeps circling in my head”
anticipating things you’ve never done some get excited others anxious, imagining every possibility I stare, like a snake has captured me with hypnosis
modern academia I should have known it was no big deal when the conference kept sending me emails advertising discounted rooms for $200 a night
your final ultrasound in this appointment there are three possible outcomes: first, a healthy baby; second, a baby, maybe, not so healthy; third, you are carrying a tiny dinosaur in your womb
wand in the jelly okay here we have what looks like an arm… so far so good… that flesh looks pink and fat to me… oh… bad luck… this claw says you’ve got a Deinonychus
nature finds a way when you’re carrying a dinosaur you’re flown to a remote island compound where a man in a white lab coat sits you down in a makeshift nest and urges you to “complete”
literary readings oh how I love to see writers walk up and down to the microphone, up and down from the podium, where they read from a few pages and sit back down again
escaping standing in a large crowd paths form between the people milling and you are forced to wonder as you plot your maneuvers why it seems so intolerable to talk to any person
pause for thanks the next time I read I am going to pause after every paragraph and wait for such a long time that people think I am finished and begin speaking again and again through their applause
wine glasses are not for that when you are finished with your wine glass do not put it on the floor, do not step on it, do not squeeze it in your hands until the delicate glass shatters
more things you should not do with wine glasses do not take a bite out of your wine glass like it is a cake or a delicate pastry, do not grind the wine glass slowly into your palm, do not throw it suddenly against the wall
after every poet I am first to the bar table, where I get another glass: pointing first to the cab, then the superior shiraz, then I guess the pinot, then the shiraz again
I’m in Washington. For some reason this leads me to a documentary on John Diefenbaker.
A joke told in a rote rhetorical style:
Old Sir John said ‘You know, I’m one of those who believes in prayer. Excepting when the prayers are uttered by the rich. Because,’ he said, ‘if their prayers were answered not only would I be sick, but long since would I have joined my ancestors in another place altogether removed.‘