Hot Mess Haiku
tangled pasta thoughts
meatball words call from the sauce
read me first they say
[Haiku On Why I Can't Seem to Write Anything Lately]
Again, obviously I am no poet, but I lust for the genuine efficiency and economy of words that only real poets achieve through their thoughtful and well-crafted verse. My brain feels like "The Mess"--a pasta dish famous in Boston for looking like an accidental and haphazard pile of pastas and eggplant and mysteries that belie its very well-balanced tastiness. If you are daring enough to stick your fork into the ugly pile, whatever comes out is guaranteed to be delicious and decidedly un-ugly. My head is full of ideas that I feel sure would be as tasty as a bite of The Mess if only I could get the nerve to dive into with real gusto and without fear. My literary fork feels timid lately. Maybe it's time for a trip to Comella's for an order of The Mess. If I can tunnel my way through a plate of that, maybe I can tunnel through the writer's block!