The 2012 Consolation Prize for Poetry
People keep telling me that now that a fountain of shit has drenched my belongings in rotting human excrement, I should be pleased that I will have new fodder for my poetry. There are two problems with this kindly meant, but ultimately unhelpful suggestion. One: A fountain of shit is like a fountain of shit, some things are not metaphors for anything except themselves. Two: Let me give you this choice, which would you prefer? Staring at a blank piece of paper experiencing angst over the possibility that there might not be a poem in you at this precise moment, or trying to build a dam to block the river of crap flowing out of your toilet?