Stuck Inside of Peoria’s Suburbs with the Arden Forest Blues Again

Dear Abby, 
My girlfriend disses me 
when I put “thee” 
in my confessional poetry. 
“So Seventeenth Century,” 
she says, “the antithesis of hip, old-fashioned, out of time.”
which triggers 
            Bill Wyman’s bass line
                        in the juke box of my mind.
You’re out of touch my baby,
My poor old-fashioned baby,
I said baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time.
“No way you can publish this rubbish,”
she says, “too loosey goosey, sugar britches.
“Try not rhyming every other word. 
The syllables should interlock
like a choo-choo train,
and go chug-chug-chug-chugging,
in a straight line,
not go staggering 
               all over the page, 
like a sentimental drunk 
                smashed on Toostie Roll wine.”
Otherwise, she’s sweet as pie, my girlfriend,
and treats me nice. 
Any advice?
Stuck Inside of Peoria’s Suburbs with the Arden Forest Blues Again
Dear Stuck,
A wise man once wrote:
A poem should be palpable and mute   
As a globed fruit,

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   
As the flight of birds.
So, yeah, your GF has a point.


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