My friend E. S. (author of a ridiculous "poem" in the Aug. 4, 2004 entry, "The Man from Nantucket", and participant in the questionable two-part interview that followed in the entries for Aug. 13 and 22) just finished reading Fight Club, which I had convinced him to read, and shares my belief that the movie is more enjoyable than the book, which I had probably subconsciously wanted him to do so that his sharing of my opinion would bolster my faith in its validity (getting others to read the same books that you read and hoping that they'll share your opinions is, of course, the foundation of academic life well, that and plagiarism ... and fraud ... and puerile hoaxes).
Regardless, E. wrote that he liked some of the riffs in the book but found the whole to be "a bit spotty in execution" (which is what he likes to say about David Foster Wallace, also). He apparently especially liked the haiku in the book, and he's insisted that I "publish" a couple of his Fight-Club-inspired haiku in italics, so that they appear more "poem-y". So, for all of his fans, here are few more E. S. jackass-terpieces to add to the growing collection:
Cherry blossoms bloom;
cherry antacids do not:
still love your job, Sport?
All your autumn years,
your home and your tomorrows:
what's left to mortgage?
Bloated white spider,
dread accounts receivable:
the web clings to all.
Sometimes, it's difficult for me to say which of us wasted his college years more thoroughly: when I asked him if his haiku should be considered ekphrastic poems, he wrote back, "Ek-fuck-stick what?"
Regardless, E. wrote that he liked some of the riffs in the book but found the whole to be "a bit spotty in execution" (which is what he likes to say about David Foster Wallace, also). He apparently especially liked the haiku in the book, and he's insisted that I "publish" a couple of his Fight-Club-inspired haiku in italics, so that they appear more "poem-y". So, for all of his fans, here are few more E. S. jackass-terpieces to add to the growing collection:
Cherry blossoms bloom;
cherry antacids do not:
still love your job, Sport?
All your autumn years,
your home and your tomorrows:
what's left to mortgage?
Bloated white spider,
dread accounts receivable:
the web clings to all.
Sometimes, it's difficult for me to say which of us wasted his college years more thoroughly: when I asked him if his haiku should be considered ekphrastic poems, he wrote back, "Ek-fuck-stick what?"