It's a musical thing, language

Once I wrote a [super shitty] poem and posted on this blog and no one commented on it and I died a little bit inside. Then I convinced myself that really no one had understood it and felt much better. Also, crap, I forgot that I wrote a poem specially to introduce this post. Okay, it's okay, I can just use it at the end. So, in introduction, I would like to say: I'm always amazed at how much meaning can be packed into a simple-looking poem.

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Run from Love

Someday, I’ll go to Mexico
And wear a poncho made of wool
With a picture of a village
At the running of the bull.

I’ll drink some cheap tequila
From a bottle on the street
And I’ll take a long siesta
With a sombrero and bare feet.

I’ll eat a bowl of beans
And tell senora that they’re bueno
Even though they taste like cardboard
And will make me gas-insaneo.

When a boy of twelve insults me
I can challenge him to duel me
And I’ll ram him through the heart
With my epee because I’m cruel me.

Yes someday I’ll go to Mexico
And I’ll meet a dark-haired girl
And I’ll hold her hand beneath the moon
And hurl on a cactus.

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This poem is dedicated to my cousin Jake, who is the pickiest bastard in the known universe with his waiters. Also is cheap.

I was sitting in a bistro with my back against a bench
and deciphering was difficult calligraphy in french;
Dairy dishes, though delicious, my GI does not digest,
just like honey gives me hives and puts my bowels to the test.
So I sat there and I squinted and I asked the waiter twice
If the pasta came with cream sauce, could I get it over rice?
Might the scrambled eggs be poached instead, and would it be too much
if they bake the fries, leave off the chives, and toast the bread a touch?
With a coolness and a calmness that did credit to his kind,
he repolished all my silver and removed the bacon rind.
So it made me mildly wistful as I sprang with happy feet,
as I dropped six pence, and hopped the fence, and flew off down the street.

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Hard Wood

With crazy torque and a short dress
She twirls on the dance floor,
With a stamp and snap, and a "Who's next?"
High heels on a hard floor
Now, her curly hair isn't bouncing any more;
The song changes, the dancing changes, the dancers.
After the ball is over, not yet the break of day,
she'll sit on a white bench by a tall hedge
with whispering love and a graying sky
And the glitter dies in her eyes at the edge
of unaccustomed weakness. In the meantime
she says, play trumpets, clash cymbals and spin
while the music plays dancer spin.

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From time to time I find in fine
to find the time to write a rhyme.
Recalling now the pleasure I
derive from such an exercise,
I find it wise to thus surprise
your eyes with this. bye-bye. By I.

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Hey, I got an idea. If anyone writes a poem-comment, then they get to choose a style and I'll write a mediocre poem about them in that style: haiku, sonnet, ballad, sestina, villanelle, you name it. Only no epics.