Existentialist Cookbook

I meant well, so please bless my heart. I bought a book of poetry called the Existentialist Cookbook. I attended a poetry reading for reasons … it's complicated. I don't like poetry. As a teenager, I had a girlfriend who loved to read e.e. cummings. She wanted to feel the poetry. I waaaanTed to FEEL her buttttttt. We broke up, never fooled with poetry again – not worth faking it. Poetry is for crazy people. The wrong kind of crazy, not the fun crazy, the melancholy crazy. No, not me, not going there. I listened to Shawnte Orion read his poetry from the Existentialist Cookbook. I laughed. The man made me laugh with poetry! I bought the book, “for” my daughter. I was going to read it on the sly – in doctors offices. I stopped reading in doctors offices because the magazines suck. I mean take People Magazine. For 49 years, People has found reasons not to put me on the cover. I understand, they pass me up for one the top 10 sexiest men alive. I get that, no place for a Sasquatch on the cover – hard the crop. Why, oh why, don't I ever get on the cover as one of the most intriguing people alive. I'm a talking Sasquatch who reads, writes and make art out from stuff like bottle caps, paint, bronze, sticks, and zeros & ones. I may need to add a deeper James Bond dimension to my life – coming soon, blackmail photos of the staff from People. I meant well, but I never remember to keep the Existentialist Cookbook in my car. The book sits on my Naked Lunch typewriter. It's become a sculpture that threatens poetry on anyone who walks near. My solution -friends – is to find a dark and intriguing way to get Mr. Orion to return to Cookeville and read his book in more detail. I'm not going to read it on my own... and the stunt might get me into People Magazine.