Not that the quirky narrative semi-rant is meant to be an indictment of domesticity or quirkiness. Quirkiness doesn't really need to be defended, not by me anyway, especially since I've secretly enjoyed The Nanny on multiple occasions. What would a poem that addresses a poet's domestic life, or home life, or everyday life sound like? There are scores of examples. It's just that to me, my domestic life is enormously depressing. Here is an example of something I wrote that would seem a shade of my approximation of what a domestic poem might begin to sound like, in the interim. (everything)
a chair by an open window
need to clear accounts
weather permit is a hassle
keeping the right parts clean
the violet, the fake postcard, the anchor
I think that's how it goes. When I go back and read it I'm left with the conclusion that I basicly wrote a poem about ass-maintenence. Yeah that's right. You get the fuckin TMIness in heaps and bushels with me! Not that I wipe my ass with a fake postcard. Is there any such as a fake postcard. "Hello from Amsterdam... Just kidding!"
But I do believe some aspect of domesticity is important, in that it's a major source for the materials one makes poems out of. That's a no-brainer. Maybe my problem is that when I read quirky narratives, I get jealous, because so many quirky narratives portray an upper-middle class existence. Why would I be jealous of such mundanity? I don't know. It's not like I try to be jealous. I don't try to have hairs either. Not that one or that one or that one.