If I read or type the word(s) poetry/poems one more time in the next hour, I'm revoking my own literacy privledges

Just finished reading Chelsey Minnis's Poemland. I had been somewhat avoiding picking it up for a few weeks because both the back and front covers are printed with a close up of annoyingly pink fur and some confusing barcode type things (these, of course, are painfully relevant to the themes of the book. Go figure.).

Anyway, still not 100% on whether or not I like this book (certainly it did not ignite such distaste in me as Tao Lin's did), but at least now I feel significantly better about my struggle with writing poetry and the nature of poetry. This (along with money, and various shiny things) is what Minnis deals with in Poemland. Her way of grappling with this question is apparently by publishing a book with a lot of bizarre similes and more ellipses than, well, it is a lot of ellipses also. [I was going to put in some witty turn of phrase here but I cracked under the pressure of producing one. So there.] Not quite sure what my own way of dealing with my relationship with (to? no, with) poetry is, but to see someone else slopping around in their own poetic mud eases my mind just a smidge.

Mind, I don't feel particularly better about any future of my quoteunquote writing career (end result: probably hermitude), but its nice to have some breathing space away from the panic-weight for a while.

Of course, Chelsey Minnis lives in Boulder, Colorado. Obviously she can make money from publishing a book of lines fretting over said lines. That's what they do there in utopia.