Headless Frank...

advisor to the lovelorn, weary, confused, and the overly self-involved

headless frank

Dear Headless Frank:

I think the poetry is going to be a new path for you. Were you looking for this? Do you think our futures are random, or are "corners turned" like this just waiting for us?
—Fairfax Fan

Dear FF—
My poetic expoundation of last week was no more waiting around the corner for me than Lawnmower Man was waiting for me on that fateful day when he knocked off my head. (But we’re not talking about that even though, to this day, he continues to mow lawn after lawn while I’ve had to, let’s say, lower my horizon considerably.)

But poetry—like sudden head detachment—happens.

Our future is hardly random but is determined by how we respond to unexpected occurrences. You claim your future.

When I felt inspirational rumblings inside my being I had a choice. I could either suppress them and maintain my dignity or I could take a chance and wax poetic about crows and squirrels.

Such waxing indeed opened a path to me. Unfortunately, before I could take my newly brimming imagination down the path it became overcrowded with crows and squirrels clamoring for my attention.

Vainly, I tried to shoo them away with shouted poetic phrases like "Hie thee to yon tiny terebinth" or "What fancy strikes so hard upon my knitted brow?" But it only encouraged them.

"We love to sit upon your nitwit brow," they responded, proving my suspicion that crows and squirrels are not good listeners.

But, as I said, poetry happens. I responded with two new lines:

Indeed they sat upon my brow;
Indeed I felt like a nitwit.

Signing off: Medulla oblongata.