Caligula and Caesar's American Adventure

Fun Times with Poetry (Cali)

So earlier today Cae was writing down poetry and when I asked why she liked it so much she started bitching at me that I wasn’t cultured enough to understand it. She said it was a “doorway to the soul” and that it couldn’t be understood by everyone. I said it sounded like a bunch of rhymes, and she said to “go wank off somewhere.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You probably want to watch.”

“Just shut the fuck up so I can write my poetry.”

“Here, hand me a piece of paper. I want to try it out.”

“Look, I know you’re a great writer and all. I’ll admit that. But can you really do poetry? Your stuff is so... Bitter.”

“Bitch, poetry can be bitter. I’ll blow you away with my mad stylings. Just give me the damn paper and a pen.”

She shrugged and ripped off a piece of notebook paper and handed me a novelty pen we had stolen from the trash museum. I started writing my sick-ass poem.

“So I guess poems have to rhyme

But I don’t have the time

We’re going on a trip

To somewhere that I don’t understand

With people that I hate

Fuck this country”

I signed it at the bottom and dated it, and sent it over.

“BOOM. LOOK AT THAT SHIT. BRILLIANT. I’M LIKE A NEW DR. SEUSS.”

“I don’t think Dr. Seuss ever used the word ‘fuck’ in any of his works. He also wasn’t a poet.”

“Fuck you. Read that shit. It’s amazing.”

“I did. It’s bitter, angry, and complete shit. I don’t even know if that classifies as poetry. It’s just words.”

“Then what is poetry, then? Hmm? If it doesn’t have to rhyme, then it IS just a string of words. BOOM. WHAT NOW, BITCH?”

I threw down a gang sign and picked up my paper.

“Obviously you’re just too damn uncultured to understand the deep feelings of cultural alienation engrained in that poem. It’s some really philosophical stuff, there. Do we have a magnet?”

“That’s philosophy to like, a ten year old boy. Why do you need a magnet?”

“I’m sticking this poem on the side of our van.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Yes I am. It’s our message. It’s what we STAND for.”

“We don’t stand for anything. We’re just going on a road trip.”

“Don’t you think we stand for something bigger than ourselves? This trip isn’t just for you to go around and see shit. It’s for cultural enlightenment. You’re feeling the alienation that us Americans are so used to. Those billboards and softdrinks and sitcoms only separate us from each other. All of us feel desperately, desperately alone in our own country, but we’re all too scared to admit it. Well I’m not. This country is fucking isolating. You haven’t even seen the midwest yet. There’s nothing for miles, Cae. Miles. Miles of just nothing. But it’s still not as isolating as the big cities. When you have so many people there and still have no one to talk to, it’s fucking awful, Cae. You just feel so alone, like all those people are mocking you. That’s why we’re on this trip. You’re being immersed in American life, and I’m surprised you haven’t asked me to take you back yet.”

Cae stayed silent. She looked sad, and I didn’t blame her. I was too, I wasn’t expecting to let so much out. I found tape, asked her to pull over, went outside, and taped the poem haphazardly on the side of the van. She didn’t say a word about it.

“The poem’s taped to the side now. You can deal with that shit.”

Cae laughed and shook her head.

“That speech is why you’re better at writing books than poetry.”

I shrugged again.

“I guess. I still kicked your ass with my poem. What was yours about, anyway?”

“...Flowers.

“Same difference.”