english accents & interstate highways…

I must have lost six or seven poems over the 17 hours it took to slide down from the center of American power to the nations limp cock poking into the Caribbean. Whatever the cost in gas and pain, there’s no good way to write while you drive. I should know, I tried several different methods. After almost sliding off the highway into Page D fame as a nameless obituary, I gave up and composed poems in my mind and spit them all over the highway. If they weren’t hit by other cars, they’ve probably starved to death by now. Doesn’t do anyone any good to think about shit like that.

In the midst of a ten day soma coma, it would seem someone has been acting in my name again. A hundred conversations about poetry, about why things never work out as planned, about the kind of shit most people don’t notice, all of it revealing an impressive mind looking for inspiration. Maybe this is the way all people should meet, get a good deep look at the soul before wasting time worrying about the flesh. Either way, there is no denying that sometimes you just luck out, and that’s how it feels rereading pages of conversation to see if I’ve missed anything important. Funny that even knowing everything I know, and being able to guess a good deal more, there are still so many unanswered questions. Some of them are no doubt really personal, but at the same time, if we are going to walk around sharing our honesty and fear, then nothing is really off-limits. Well, there are a few ways to find out if that is true, so we can’t complain as to tools available. Might be time to unfold pamphlets a little faster, learn a little closer to the blade. No hurry in terms of time, but there are things I’m dying every night to know and finding those same question every morning at rebirth.

There’s been a good amount of poetry in life lately, but I can always do more. Writing poetry isn’t really that hard, and as such, I don’t feel like I can take any more credit for poetry than I do for breathing, eating, or fucking, which in my mind are all about the same, including poetry. At the same time, living as I do in the midst of this fucking law suit, having no job, being broke most of the time, etc., etc. I do have loads of time to focus on the one thing I have that nobody can take away. (So far, I’ve found out that jobs, health, money, and self-respect are all loaned rather than bought. Long story that nobody cares about me, including myself.)

This is a rather long winded way of saying I’ve been writing a shit-ton more poetry lately. Fucking A, what else I got left to do? Makes me want to laugh whenever I think about how ridiculous the situation has become. On the other hand, there are some benefits. Weight loss, being able to grow my hair out, and poetry seem to be the chief benefits, but I’m hoping there are others. What I’m laughing about is that as bad as things are, it still beats playing monkey for a living.

In the midst of jacking off to making up phrases (and occasionally words, although not really an intended consequence) and pushing words together into poems, the only thing I require is as much sensory experience as I can. I’m not sure how other people write poems, but my method is actually a lot easier than you would think. I assemble a bunch of images and then tie them together with a bigger thread. You can build any kind of meaning, ask any kind of question, anything you want to say. Personally, I always thought it was more like learning a language than learning to use a language. There is a slight but important difference there, and the result is that many would be poets are given terrible instruction and often times incorrect advice about method and reading poetry at high schools and colleges all over the country. (Sorry international folk, I don’t have a passport so they won’t let me come see you. Send all complaints care of Barack. He’s obviously not doing much else these days.)

The end result is that more people would be interested in poetry if they were properly taught that it is just a way to communicate both aesthetics and information at the same time. Nothing more complicated than that. We build emotional reactions out of less than that. That’s where the power of poetry really is. Not in the BS world of academia or some ivory tower where admissions officers guard the halls of knowledge like they would a bank vault. Not in magazines, or books, or anywhere else so static. Poetry is just one of many human inventions that melds both an attempt at beauty with the attempt to inform. Everything else is bullshit semantic games that wanna-be poets impose on those of us actually writing poetry. What can you do but write more and care less?

Which brings me to a certain poem I wrote that seemed to resonate a little more than anticipated. Just to cut through the fog, it wasn’t written out of anything except admiration that a certain girl in a far off land (remember, we don’t use names here at Foolish Consolidated Poetic Industries) who put her picture up as her front page. Now, even if her poetry was shitty (and it is most certainly not. It is fantastic) that would be a brave thing to do. I’ve mentioned many times my own discomfort with seeing myself in pictures or mirrors, and the last thing I would ever do would be to post a pic of myself. No, I do not believe I am hideous, I just intensely dislike what I see, though having long hair is fun. At any rate, such a ballsy decision combined with a few scraps of thoughts that were rattling around when I was reading her shit combined to form “grey-eyed blondes from london.” rereading the poem, I’m hopeful that the inspiration for the poem knows it was written more as tribute than as anything else, and I am neither a stalker nor anything else that involves hurting other people. (Right. believe the weird guy on the internet. That’ll work!) Luckily, I think the point came across and as people commented on the poem, I got to thinking of some more shit, and am working on a follow up that will hopefully be posted today or tomorrow depending on how vacation is going.

Well shit, that was about 800 words more than I meant to write. Time for cigarettes. Time for coffee. Time to write some more…

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