To the Great Abysmal Internet

Chase McDuffie Hart the Second (that's me),
solemnly vows to write a sonnet each day
for one year, in order to see what happens.
He'll post them here, however terrible.

Petrarch, the bard, cummings, John Donne, A.E.
Stallings, and Emily Barrett Browning all say
things in his head. Holding pens like javelins,
they whisper arcs and pierce the inexpressible.

These clunk along, meter as pot-holed
as his vernacular. Rhymes scheme
or don't. Expect fourteen lines, and scold
freely if you don't find my themes

appropriate to the form. Forgive enjambment
when it bothers, and this tone of denouement.

08 August 2009

sonnet to disc golf

I’m broke as fuck. Ten bucks in the fucking bank.
So I go play disc golf because it’s free
and in all ways superior (for my class) to golf.
Golf retains the center, golf earned it
by thinking of the format first. But disc
has taken golf’s passion, golf’s beauty, and discarded
nearly all of golf’s bourgeois decorum: “Fuck!”
call the huckers of pond-bound discs,
who, having effectively sunk a ten-spot,
must choose: ditch the sports only equipment,
or venture into the pond to retrieve it?
Many brave the squelch and suck of knee-
deep goose shit, leeches, sharp rocks,
glass bottles, and used needles for their plastic.
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