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I’m teaching Gatsby, so I cut my hair like Daisy Buchanan. It’s fun. She’s an infuriating character, but her style’s the bee’s knees. We’ve been learning a lot about the Jazz Age in my class, and it is interesting how fluidly my students are able to make the connections between the income inequality and political corruption then and now. Several have posited that this is the decade that has most closely resembled the 1920s since the 1920s, with its growth in technology and consumables, its rapid change, its new warfare, its cupidity. They are smartypantses.

So, I cut my hair into a lil’ bob, and I’m working on making my voice full of money.

I did lots of errands today, starting at nine in the morning when, on my way to an appointment with my five year-old, I pulled into a parking space and turned around to look at her and she puked all over me. No flu, just drank too much water too fast, I think, but it made the rest of the day trying and stinky.

 

I assigned my students to watch “Sincerely, F. Scott Fitzgerald” and I heard they didn’t like it because it is “poorly produced”. That’s true, it is, but there’s some interesting stuff in there, I think. Also, how cool is it that I get to teach students who can tell when something is poorly produced?

Tonight I’m going to channel the lost generation.

The Lost Ones

How lost the generations, the ones when the century is young, the ones who feel everything on the verge, the ones who trust nothing and with good reason, the ones who caterwaul over wires, who invent dances to kick up their heels, tenacious and sublime. Lost? Lost how? Lost to the new dawn, of new warfare, of brand new consumption, of bright new agencies surveilling every note of new jazz, lost to the cool seduction of moneyed tongues, lost to short reigns on short dresses, searching in the dark for one green light across the waves of a big dark lake, searching in the dark for the wright of words on screens, searching in the dark for shut down restart try again, what about the big art to carry us through the bridge of years? What about the fields of blank daisies, white blank petals torn from a Daisy, each one a relic of the past, the promise of paralyzing happiness, this age the age of a golden roar? What about the gilded cascade of sticking doctrine, the last rational dresses shucked off by lilting melodics,

full of coin?

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Dunno, sometimes poems are weird. Happy Friday, poemfriends.

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