Ten Year Anniversary of The Good Typist!

I realized with a shock this week that I have been blogging here at The Good Typist for ten years. Ten years! It totally snuck up on me. After combing through years of content this weekend, it became pretty clear to me that I haven’t done much if anything to “optimize” my site for better ease of reading and for finding posts by subject, type, etc. So I’m going to be making some changes to this blog over the next few weeks to make it easier to find things like my poems, short stories, creative essays, writing advice, and game reviews. I’ll be organizing and linking posts, so, if you wake up morning and suddenly have a hankering to read one of my poems or short stories, or you simply can’t fall asleep without knowing what I thought of Tomb Raider 3, you’re in luck! Hopefully, with the new organization, a few quick clicks will get you to your destination. However, I’m not that familiar with the deeper functions of Blogger, and I have ten year’s worth of accumulated content to sort through, so this is not a “snap of the finger” proposition. I also have a sneaking suspicion this may end up becoming a gateway project that leads to an actual, proper website.

This is probably something I should have thought about doing about two years in instead of ten, but hindsight is 20/20. While I biff off to sort out how I’m going to make this happen, here’s a poem. I’ll be back next week with a regularly scheduled, proper post, in which you may look forward to my complete emotional breakdown when the reality of how complicated this project is actually hits me. 

By the way, if any of you out there are Blogger experts, I am accepting suggestions!

Leaden

Who wants to read my poem

about the struggle

of the poet to write poems?

Who would like to commiserate?

Who would like to say oh that sounds just awful,

and but you're very talented you know,

and I'm sure you'll come up with something brilliant quite soon.

Who will send me a bouquet of scarlet pansies

with a little card to wish me

well in the way of words?

Who will leave chocolates in my mailbox, a yellow

beach ball in my driveway? Who will tell me jokes,

and call me afternoons to ask me:

How goes it with the dearth of words?

Would you like take a walk along the pier? Or share

a bowl of onion soup and warm French bread?

Who will lend me their feather boa, and suggest

sage-scented candles to open up my chakras?

And who would like to give me tangerines?

I'll accept compelling tales as well; your latest

horrid breakup or breakdown--anything will do

just as long as I can use it as my own.

Please leave all offerings within arm's reach.

I will gather them with idle hands, I will

collect them all.

--Kristen McHenry

A Questionnaire for Determining Those Deserving of Care

Please answer yes or no to the following questions:

Do you smoke?

Do you have poor eyesight?

Do you suffer quietly from a vague, chronic, low-grade sadness?

Does your fleshly mass exceed the bounds of visual good taste?

Do you stubbornly refuse to bring children into this world?

Do you have too many children?

Are you lazy?

Are you freckled?

Are you foreclosed-on?

Was your cancer caused by a poor mental outlook?

Do you consume processed foods?

Do you wake up at night terrified, staring into a nameless void?

Do you avoid flossing?

Have you ever eaten Cheetos in lieu of lunch?

Are you a pessimist?

Do you nap in the daytime?

Have you ever had a lapse of faith, no matter how momentary?

Are you a drinker? An addict?

Godless? Schizophrenic?

Do you crave oily foods?

Did you at any point accept less-than-ideal work?

Have you allowed your self-esteem to suffer?

Have you found yourself unable to forgive?

Have you ever wondered what you're really doing here?

Do you find yourself anxious without reason?

Do you sometimes find it difficult to pee?

Have you ever made an uninformed choice?

Are you a compulsive:

E-mail checker?

Nail-biter?

Lip-chewer?

Self-cutter?

Liar?

Have you ever been:

Fatigued?

Socially awkward?

In debt?

Down in the dumps?

Humiliatingly in love with someone who couldn't or wouldn't love you back?

Haunted by self-doubt?

Afflicted with flatulence?

Caught speeding?

Jealous of those more fortunate?

Unable to find the correct paperwork?

Lonely beyond imagining?

Overdressed?

Mired in the throes of self-pity?

Avoidant?

Addicted to your own shame?

If you have answered “yes” to two or more of the above questions,

we regret to inform that you have been deemed

unworthy, due to the misfortune

that you have quite obviously brought upon yourself

with your reckless disregard

for all that is clean, holy, and God-fearing and virtuous.

We wish you the best

in your continued search for quality care. 

--Kristen McHenry

Hermit Crab's Lament

I have a lot going on at the moment, and also it’s death hot, so in lieu of a proper post this week, here is an old poem from my first chapbook, “The Goatfish Alphabet”. Enjoy, and stay safe in the heat!

Hermit Crab’s Lament

You who call us

house proud and vapid

have misunderstood.

Do you think we merely

fumble our way by instinct

into any hollow object?

You can't comprehend

the arithmetic of our choices; the ecstasy

of toil in a hard, rank womb.

I will admit to a touch of pride.

I’ve always been keen on headroom,

though we can ill afford

to be choosy in these times.

I remember the days of abalone ceilings, the yolk

of my belly nestled in porcelain ribs, nights

when we met the Pylochelidae in secret,

to whirl across the sodden dune,

showing off our spiral cloches.

We danced to forget that our shelters

would again abandon us.

It’s of no consequence

these days, I suppose. They’re all a poor fit now.

The wind oozes through, no matter the rental.

The shore is a wasteland of broken cups.

It’s about the seeking, they tell me.

Well cold comfort. My whole

damn species are fools, always skittering

toward some fresh perfection, always

outgrowing what loves us.

Only God has the courage

to go without a crust, to linger

as tender as a polyp in these barrens.

When he taps our walls for the final eviction,

We will be unable to hang on, unable

to refuse. He will stagger with us

towards our first, most perfect home.  

--Kristen McHenry

Sestina for the Hanged Man, ‘Mo Better Buddy

I’ve had a few requests for some Buddy updates, so I’m going to try to get a mid-week Buddy “newsletter” out at some point over the next few days. (Sneak Preview: dead rats and butcher paper.) Until then, here is a sestina I wrote about the Hanged Man, one of the major arcana cards in the Tarot. It’s a little heavy for a hot, sunny Memorial Day weekend, but what the heck.

Sestina for the Hanged Man

This is a process of voluntary surrender.

In return for his sacrifice, The Hanged Man gains

Not illumination, but a lust for the divine.

The tree of sacrifice is living wood, its bounds

Of vines a comfort creature, offering

The mute counsel of its long decay.

This is a process of accepting the decay.

In return for his sacrifice, he will surrender

All that was given him in offering,

The sun-dulled dream of his fevered gains.

He has offered himself to these loving bounds.

Inverted, he sings for the divine.

This is a process of mourning the divine.

His bones know the journey of their own decay

He has witnessed the failure of our pious bounds

And the humid medicine of surrender.

In his dumb rebellion, The Hanged Man gains

The imitation of god, but never an offering

This is a process of refusing Earth’s offering.

The Hanged Man waits for the divine.

He has not accounted for his carnal gains.

He’s at ease with the relics of decay,

And the cost of every drab surrender.

His renouncement knows no bounds.

This is a process of mastering the bounds.

The Hanged Man knows the value of an offering

He is ecstatic in his surrender.

He is entranced by the divine.

Forgive me, Hanged Man: I’ve trafficked in decay;

With no respect for my blessed gains.

This is a process of extinguishing the gains.

His grief cinches tighter than his bounds.

The Tree of Sacrifice weakens with decay

And the Hanged Man triples his offering

To the silent, warm divine.

He has set the terms of his surrender.

And what’s to become of his sweet decay? I have no prophecy in offering,

Nothing to show for my earthly gains. No means of unfastening my bounds.

I too, am dazed by the mute Divine. I too, am listless in surrender.

--Kristen McHenry