the instruction manual

Back to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara.

J.A., “The Instruction Manual,” p10

Risky risky risky risky. Commentary, I mean.

I didn’t understand this poem as a parody until I read Shapiro. Then I started to realize the intent behind the flatness of the sentences, the lack of nuance, the crayon box color scheme, and the enervating sensation that nothing is happening.

It’s embarrassing to admit I didn’t recognize the parody. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t know what it was.

I like the poem better now that I see the parody. I prefer parody to that shutter blinded open mouthed earnestness of most poetry. On the other hand, I feel ashamed of that preference. Shouldn’t one be open hearted and naive, not scheming and split tongued?

It’s hard to decide to write with the true degree of parody that I feel. Isn’t it shaming. Isn’t it making fun, isn’t it saying Your way is bad. I want to write in parody of journal writing. I have written parody of journal writing. But not really.

And the instruction manual bounces back and forth – to Guadalajara, to the manual, back to Guadalajara, in the office tower, down to the street, back up to the bell tower, back to the instruction manual. And isn’t “instruction manual” (the title) describing also how not to be, what’s past and through the parody? Isn’t the parody pointing out something that’s very true, teaching you toward a different place?

I’m not being careful in putting my thoughts into words, I’m at my desk, and I’m supposed to be working on the “questionnaire.”