Ok so, I'm not exactly sure about the copyright rules here, but I am citing the author so I assume this is legal. Anyway, a break from school seems to pose the perfect opportunity to post (alliteration!) this, one of my favorites. (And also because I have nothing to say today, b/c I'm depressed after watching Hotel Rwanda, and b/c Olivia left, and b/c we had a terrible dinner at Ted Montana's at which the waiter made me extremely uncomfortable just by being awkwardly and overly fake-friendly and additionally gave Beth sweet tea with sludge in it and me a merlot in a dirty glass with food particles encrusted all over it and b/c I saw that movie about Bob Dylan today which was really good but I didn't really understand it b/c I don't know Dylan that well and so now I have a lot of listening and reading to do and I don't know when I'm going home b/c my brother seems to think that he can call me at the last minute and say "ok I'm ready to leave now!" and I haven't played my oboe since the wedding in October unless you count the time at my party a few nights ago where I drunkenly made my oboe sound like a french siren (I had never drunk-oboed before that night) and I'm supposed to play at home at Xmas and....whoa. How's that for stream of consciousness? I'm going to bed now. Just read the poem.)
Beside the Point
by Stephen Cushman
The sky has never won a prize.
The clouds have no careers.
The rainbow doesn't say my work,
The rock in the creek's not so productive.
The mud on the bank's not too pragmatic.
There's nothing useful in the noise
the wind makes in the leaves.
Buck up now, my fellow superfluity,
and let's both be of that worthless ilk,
self-indulgent as shooting stars,
self-absorbed as sunsets.
Who cares if we're inconsequential?
At least we can revel, two good-for-nothings,
in our irrelevance; at least come and make
no difference with me.