At one point, a couple years back, I read a blog post by Fat Cyclist wherein he outlined the way to blog properly (if you want 20,000+ hits per day). He basically rehashed what he said at a "Web 2.0 Panel" at Interbike. It was educational and game-changing for me. My Googlin' mojo is weak right now and I can't seem to find the post, but I'm sure you can if you have more patience and skill than I do (which is more than likely the case). The reason why I bring this up is because one of Fatty's rules had something to do with not blogging more than once a day. Up until now I have pretty much adhered to this rule, but now...I don't know what it is, maybe it's the stuff I've been doing for Bikerumor, but I'm starting to feel OK about posting more than once a day. Shorter, less ambitious posts might suit my short little span of attention anyway.
Like I said, anyway....
This relates to last Friday's post, it's a poem that my MOM sent over. Yes, my mom. (You might recall from previous posts that my mom is awesome.) It's about Starbucks and it's really good.
"Your Punishment in Hell" by Gary Leising from Fastened to a Dying Animal. © Pudding House Press, 2010. Reprinted withOUT permission.
Your Punishment in Hell
Someone will douse a cobra in gasoline,
light the sucker, and shove it headfirst
down your throat. It'll speed straight
through your esophagus, unfurl
its hood to fill your stomach
then begin to strike and strike and strike
and strike and strike: fangs pierce
your stomach, venom pours in,
the little burn of incipient ulcers
grows quick, paralysis sets in.
Your lungs stop before your brain,
before your hand, which lifts
to your mouth the plastic-lidded
paper cup holding the caramel
macchiato cappuccino with a double
shot of espresso and frothed soy milk
topped with two shakes of cinnamon
and no, NO (yes, you said no twice)
sugar that was made for you
slowly, while I, already running late,
waited behind you for a simple,
already-made black coffee.
You will lose all motion before
that drink reaches your mouth,
but you recover and the drink,
strangely, has vanished, and barrista
and cobra-douser-slash-lighter do it all again
and again. I know this because,
for my angry impatience,
I am behind you in line in hell
forever, the pot of black coffee
behind the counter steaming,
turning, I know, bitter.