Journal
As January comes to an end, the new year has begun.
So what.
So, I begin the new year on a downer. Not too suspicious, really. My years have all turned to shit, and stunk up the Universe. My own little section of Hell is mine to observe and to question.
It’s still with a sense of wonder that I look at the MySpace, Live journal, FaceBook generation.
Oh! You’ve written a Blawg! Jolly Right! So, you journal, then, eh?
Fuck auff. A website isn’t a personal invitation for you to cozy up to me and share your most asinine glimmers of reasoning masquerading as journal entries. Crap. Fucking crap is what I read out there. Just crap. And so much of it.
My Friend Phinny, the guy who writes the Adventures of Nervous Man, wrote to me about a dream he had where mankind had been obliterated, and people had to piece together the past from Blogs. An interesting notion to be certain. There might be some hope in piecing together every known thought anyone ever recorded. Reading archived Blogs would be akin to Hell for me. I’d need some entertainment.
Which is why I write.
Which is why F a t h e r L u k e .com exists.
My balls feel like they’ve been kicked over, and over again by feet in heavy, steel toe boots.
"I read your Blog. I did that exact thing, and let me tell you. . ."
So. I write poems about things which you’ve done, exactly the way you would write them, and in exactly the manner in which you thought them. I see. My work has no originality, to it. My work is something you’ve already thought, and now you want to share with me some thoughts on the matter.
Where is the poetry?
For my next trick, I shall invent a reality show:
Last Poet Standing.
I’ll be the first to shoot myself in the eye
and die.
Bye.
Poetry rhymes, doesn’t it?
- -
Okay, 
