We Kellys have:

1) That infernal song that Woody sang to his girlfriend for her birthday on "Cheers." (Yes, I have seen that episode. Yes, I do know what you're talking about when you monotonally croon, "Why? Because you're ... Kellykellykellykelly ..." Yes, it's sweet. But it's not my song.)

2) "Kelly Watch the Stars" from Air's "Moon Safari" album. A nice, sort of drug-happy song, and I'm glad it exists, but it's not my song.

I want a love song, dammit! I want an ode! My name does not have to be in the title, or even in the text. But I am a veritable fount of inspirational goodness and beauty, and the art world should know that. Moreover, I and the rest of my Kelly komrades should know that, so if your masterpiece does incorporate "Kelly" somewhere in the body, we'd all appreciate it.

Let's think. "Kelly" is an inherently rhymable name. Simple in meter and structure, easily matched in consonance and assonance with thousands of words of equal or greater length. I've found that the sound and structure of my name makes for an endless number of lymerical possibilities, but I want no lymeric submissions, thanks. Also, let's, please, try to avoid the words "belly," "smelly," and/or "jelly" in composition of my lyrical tribute.

I'm looking to purge from my head a not-so-nice poem I once composed to torment myself, a funny, taunting little number involving numerous repetitions of "Kelly," "belly," and "Boticelli." It was dumb and awful. I don't feel the need to elaborate beyond that, and if you do feel the need, please don't share your creations with me.

ON THE OTHER HAND, should you wish to create an poem/song/elaborate interpretive dance to eradicate the ugly memories of the derisive "Kelly Belly Boticelli," one which does not directly involve my name, but which I will recognize as uniquely mine, by all means, do so. I don't think Kalliope minds when the occasional epic omits direct mention of her. Her presence is undeniable. All I want is a tangible, creative representation of the magic and wonder I bring into the world, thanks. I've liberally doused creation with juicy nuggets of inspiration. Take one, and have at it.

A guy I knew in high school wrote a poem about me, actually. He read it at the open mic night of my favorite coffee shop, and it involved neither my name, my belly, or the corpulent maidens in the works of Sandro Boticelli. It did, however, involve how I smelled and how he wished I could be next to him in his blue minivan. Before he finished reading, I escaped through the back door of the cafe. That may have been mean and chickenshitty of me, but the poet in question was about 10 years older and 30 times sketchier than I. I was not quite legal at the time.

He lived in his parents' basement and worked in a warehouse, which didn't bother me. What was annoying was that he complained endlessly about his life but made little effort to change it. On more than one occasion, he and another bright but dead-end friend of his made elaborate plans to pick up and move across the country, and were greatly encouraged by the rest of his friends who could see how unhappy they were. They had nothing to lose, and had very plausible goals. But every time, about a week before they planned to go, they would wuss out and go back to their warehouse and Wal-Mart jobs. I went back to that coffee shop last year, and ran into my sad poet friend. He still wore the same "Tom Waits" baseball cap, still lived with his parents, still worked in the warehouse, and still complained quite articulately about his "fate."

I should say, the poem was actually quite lovely, and not the serial killer fantasy I made it out to be.

BUT, IT'S HIGH TIME I HAD A NEW ONE!

This is not an assignment. If a poem or song is to be written for me, I want is to be the fruit of some irrepressible adoration, and not out of any feelings of guilt or duty. Merely allow the juices to flow and manifest themselves into a suitable bit of verse, place said verse on paper, roll it into a scroll doused with scented oils, and place it at my feet with a fatted calf and a basket of pomegranites.

That's all I ask.

Oh, and a bottle of grappa, too, please.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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