Rather unhappy thunks about poetry

Af’er th’ debacle wif Raintown, ah went back t’mah earlier posishun of “Publicashun? Who needs it! Fry mah hide!”

So, ah’s not mighty happy t’come t’th’ realizashun thet ah reckon ah might need it.

ah’s feelin’ incredibly isolated fum poetry, an’ I’ve finally added two an’ two an’ unnerstan’ thet when I’ve felt this hyar way in th’ past it’s been on account o’ ah have isolated mahse’f through resistance t’publicashun.

It ain’t th’ publicashun in an’ of itse’f thet kin groun’ mah writin’. It’s th’ attempp t’take part in th’ larger cornvahsashun.

But, oh god, ah’s so tired, cuss it all t’ tarnation. ah doesn’t be hankerin’ t’reckon about submisshuns an’ pickin’ an’ choosin’ an’ wawkin’ so hard, cuss it all t’ tarnation. But when ah doesn’t, ah doesn’t does ennythin’ wif poetry. It’s eifer th’ hard road o’ no road, cuss it all t’ tarnation. Am ah ready fo’ no road?

Mebbe mah Mammy was right an’ th’ whole poetry thin’ is a phase. ah’s jest slower at gittin’ on over mah phases than no’mal varmints. (Oddity, ah nearly wrote “real varmints.” Apparently, ah reckon ah’s Pinocchio.)