Nobody actually said that. It was barely a misreading. But that night my bones were bored of feisty, fun falls by the wayside (where seashells
are sold). Be bold, I thought. I could see the light. And it was past seven thirty in the evening. We would have just called this night were it not the
middle of summer, and the mos quitoes were hanging low (we al way think we can hear the whine of their buzz) with the humidity
that’s stuffed into the hot bubble that sits upon the earth and is as tall as we are (maybe five feet three, at best?). We don’t think
much of brides. Well, I certainly don’t. Perhaps the twins do. For all I know, Ginger does. Being one, taking one, how would I have
known the difference, even as the oldest? I was reading of the dream-colored sex of Robert Heinlein’s blob-creatures. Or
were they asexual? Those were definitely orgasms that were happening, rest assured. That’s my recollection, and how
could one forget? My book was lying on my bed, the one that if you peeked over the vinyl off-colored white headboard through the window-
screen you’d see the leaves of the sycamore—the biggest branch of which
I was currently swinging beneath—they’d flap a bit and star into my face as if they
were reading my mind, should the wind not be blowing them all silly. Sometimes at two or three in the morning, a few might be scritching upon the screen just loud
enough to wake me up, in which case I’d hop upon my knees and stare out over that dirty white headboard checking to make sure the outline of a tornado wasn’t headed directly
toward us from Potato Hill (I’d imagine the ominous shadow one would leave in the light of one of Chaffee’s flares, which were flung into the sky at all hours of the night during
the hottest parts of the summer). Once assured, I’d gather my covers and the Afghan Mom made us each of our fav orite colors (mine had a purple theme),
curl up and sleep until it was time to get up and get ready for school. No
dreams of future families, much less any brides, at least for me, as there
would be Civics and Algebra and Phys ics and Geometry and Band and my new favorite subject, which I would scribbled in the journal my granny had
gotten me for Christmas and that I’d eventually fill from cover to cover with it. They didn’t have classes specifically for it, but sometimes it would be covered
watching my future dissolve this morning i take an alternative tack, i dissolve into the beauty of the city that has, what, taken so much from me? has given me such treasure? how else could it be to be here for twenty-five years? on the parchment be tween the greenery of trees, a heckuva frame, i see the outline of the golden gate bridge. it is a view i can own, as if i could pluck and plink it as if it were a miniature harp. what would it sound like, san francisco? i have ideas, but cannot truly know unless i try. and if i were to succeed that is the
moment i’d finally let
go. of reality. of this life.
without even hurling my self off the distinct and recognizable structure
so far in the distance from where i sit on this russian hill bench. should i do it? i think i could. per haps, perhaps, but i will wait until tomorrow, i think, when my head is clearer and my nose a bit warmer.
I want the world I did always, small pieces and clear acknowledgments —Robert Creeley
Pumping a pledge into a flag
is not what we do here. Who is more important, the people who keep us, or everyone else? Speed through a red light with out answering that question. Pardon my love, which is just a façade. Let’s move our thoughts back to celebrity gossip, as if they were the actual ways of the world. And bypass those for now (the actual ways of the world). We two are the proud new inhabitants of brand new offices, right? So we went about taking measurements, size being all-important. It
turns out that my boxed office is bigger than your boxed office. What’s the population of your apartment complex? If you lived in Idaho and I lived in Ohio, would our kisses have accents?
And the stony words that are left down with us greet him mutely almost rudely casting their shadows. For example, the shadow the cross cast. —Jack Spicer
What stamina! Sure, it’s amazing when we find the discipline to induce and then
rev up the necessary motivation required
in times like these, but to be strong-willed
and experienced enough to know that it is
possible, and to put that knowledge to work
by stirring up enough stamina. Wow. I’ve always
been one to beat the odds when the chips
are down. Haven’t I? Hm. Or is that something I’ve held on to, a belief in myself that is but delusional? Would it matter which way reality tilts, whether
or not the belief in myself, the confidence, was legitimate or fantastical? Because I mean, either way, here I am, right? I do have a preference, I suppose. I fancy
living in reality over existing in a universe of my own ignis fatuus. Perhaps there are those who’d want for the alternative, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.
More attempts at getting to the heart of a pretty difficult matter without the bother of conveying all of the difficulty. Because when I do the latter, as I some
times do, it seems to me that I’m bringing
on more grief, more tumult, torturing not
only myself a bit more with my attempts
at repeating the nature of my difficulties,
getting into the specifics as much or as little as I do, but also dispensing the tension outward to whomever might be nice enough to pay attention. I don’t
want to do that. Certainly not today. And besides, with all of the tools I can use when going through the act of piling these lines upon one another, for
whatever particular reason that I happen to be doing so, besides the fact that this happens to be what I do, that one thing that I’m compelled and with discipline to
build under almost any circumstance, the act of which (this writing) I have noted has often saved my life or at least extend ed it—anyway, to finish the thought that
I seem not to want to finish—given the
numerous devices which I can utilize when doing this, surely there is a way to express myself in way that can be
understood enough, a way in which the delivery is much less stressful than a rigid description without any unnecessary flair? Oh, there surely
must be. I tell stories. I freely associate. I understand the con cepts of metaphor and parody and whatnot, so surely there is a way
to do such a thing during which I might lift my head high rather than cower with it angled toward the ground while doing so? Or is this just a way, as
it seems to me now, of doing nothing, of saying nothing, of stalling with the problems still burning within me. Please know that is a rhetorical question. For I needn’t an answer.
Exerting a form of power used to manipulate a group who the “powerful” feel the need to sup press (and let’s look at why that
desire exists here)—to force that group into submission, into an obeisance to the “powerful”—is not a sonnet. And if it is not a sonnet,
then I don’t know what might be come the only answer to the What is a sonnet? question, if I may be so obvious. What in the world is a sonnet,
then? Can it possibly be this non-rhyming example of answering What is a sonnet? Or would said non-rhyming sequence neg ate its possibility as holding forth as one?
In actuality, I don’t even know if this is really a problem. But eat around it, for sure. I mean. Look at it. It’s disgusting. Colors
bread should never see. Colors bread should never be. Although, in actuality, I’ve been to a bakery that has bread in most any color
you might imagine. But don’t eat the mold. Better yet, get some new bread. Then again, how should I know what eating mold might do to
a nice person like yourself. After all, where did we get penicillin? Or I do think that is where it came from. That it was once a drug derived from mold
that cured all sorts of outlandish ailments. Saved scads of actual human lives. But
Reflecting on his topsy-turvy but mostly hard-earned, lucky, modestly successful life – okay, it had been a rollercoaster,
especially here at what was surely to be the tail-end por tion of it. He had never be lieved in karma. That was
too illogical. Oh, he had his dreamy fantasies, and for a man bent on engagement and logic (to a fault at times)—I
mean he was a poet—and he could let his mind and at times his body and spirit get caught up in the big notion of romance,
of love, never fate, he was too much of a control freak, but he’d often make big decisions based on gut instinct and butterfiles,
knowing full well it was not a leading cause for true success. Not for him. However, for one so internally steeped in logic,
he’d lived through some fairly karmic circumstances, the biggest example that always came to mind was that he’d
historically denigrated even the idea that a long-distance relationship might be a serious one at all. One borne of long-
distance, at least. And he’d think occasionally of the very attractive man he’d ghosted after a few dates for the simple
reason that he incessantly e
manated a dourly pungent odor
of garlic from what must have have been every single pore of
his body. He would even joking ly tell this story if ever the right
time (to him) arose. The years went on and began to take
their toll, most especially be cause the bright fortunate life he led from place to place had taken a tragic turn one mind-
altering day, changing his life so incredibly, and only in the worst possible ways, the ones that seemed impossible to rise above. Then,
wouldn’t you know it, he found himself in a long-distance relation ship with someone he had met on the internet. And with someone
who seemed as satisfied with the virtual ways as he was uncomfort able with them, perferring the phy
sically present ways. It went on
for many years, and even
when he eventually found
himself in its seventh year (having only had the
pleasure of his company in the same physical space for
less than a couple of weeks’ duration).... Well, ithout going
into any more details or giving away how that turned out, there was also the time he had what he thought an
amazing connection on a date some time after he’d parted ways with garlic man. There seemed such a connection
and on so many levels, but afterwards when requesting what he figured would be an easy second time hanging out,
he was blatantly told it didn’t seem in the cards because he didn’t like “the smell of your clothes.” Well, at least in that
case, crisis averted, I suppose. As the old man grew closer to sleep (hopefully just that) one night late in his life, as he was
thinking about these events in which he’d been a part of, had molded his life in perhaps quite significant ways, each circum
stance, on their own, he recalled his stance on astrology, which he thought quite related to all this stuff.
He hadn’t put any credence whatsoever
in the unscientific practice, even as his
world seemed inundated with examples
in which the practice foretold severe
truths. But he had found at an
early age how enlightening it might be, how truly engaging it was, when one was first getting to know a person in which there was obvious interest,
or attraction, to ask the familiar “What’s your sign?” and then move on to a deep analysis of how each of their astrological signs gave so many
clues about how terrific (or, heaven for bid, haha, not terrific) their pairing might ultimately be. He could not even be gin to imagine the hour he had spent
in long conversation on that subject, and how it had brought him and the person with whom he was conversing most always closer, but sometimes al
so further apart, which could have easily been taken as proof that astrology was all but a spot-on science. And that was his last thought before, lying in bed in
his rather modest-sized apartment where he’d lived alone ever since that great tragedy so many years ago, before which he’d lived such a wonderful, blessed life.
If one had been watching over him they would have noticed the early deep but fairly quiet intermittent rasps that would occur in which an onlooker could tell
that the old man in the bed was working his way toward sleep. And while there was no literal onlooker,
those intermittent rasps turned with
some haste into what would be long,
ugly, extended snoring fits. A nightly routine the poor man had no idea of, having lived alone for so many years.
Gothic Constellations Lead to Western Destinations (regarding abstract poetry)
abstraction
i presume or from what i gather is quite different from culture to culture
and in ours for sure it’s too head-scratching for most
-(but that’s poetry)-
it seems to require quite a bit for numbskulls to get into it.
even considering 20th century art, etc.
but also
it’s about a step away from trad poetry, too.
because poetry thinks so highly of itself
that everyone generally thinks of as difficult.
we have to work sooooo hard to understand it. right?
(i suppose this is our multiculturalism topic for today.)
or do you get that notion?
not you yourself but don't you think others think that way? generally?
and i will say that if so they are indeed misguided at best.
but there are a lot of different structural mechanisms.
poetry architecture
and a lot of different—
what’d you say earlier?
literary devices.
ruses one might call them.
so people go oohhhh i just don’t get it; it’s so hard to get.
what a lyrical fallacy!
writers do have plenty of traditional devices.
readers might enjoy them or roll their eyes or be oblivious or
realizing they are upon one, get triggered into oh, how difficult poetry is.
writers are no more complicated than anyone else.
likewise, readers can run the gamut but overcomplicate the simplicity of reading.
can make things complicated.
can prefer or wish they were reading a novel or short story because
poetry=difficult
novelists and novels can be quite complex, as well.
but.
the words, the writing, the poem itself is for a READER
who absolutely should not generally need to know—much less understand—
any poetic devices, anything whatsoever except how to read and listen
or read and/or listen to get stuff out of what’s clearly on the page.
to get big stuff out of it, even, like what’s not obviously there, or what might be—
oh no—
complicated.
but like surfing, a sport, something i have no interest in but a lot of people do, you just need do one thing besides simply read/listen.
which is ride it.
go wherever it takes you.
wherever that is.
and where it takes you is never wrong.
i mean you can get the wrong impressions, you can wind up someplace unintentional, which is sometimes fantastic, and sometimes not, but it’s not wrong. it doesn’t make
the journey incorrect or even difficult. i mean especially if you enjoy the ride.
take it wherever it takes you, and you E N J O Y that in some form or fashion, or have that dumb i hafta solve this mentality like you and i tend to have.
keep riding and soon you begin to learn the different kinds of waves,
and how to ride them each best as you can.
and they all take you someplace.
often someplace beautiful
forget sharks & stingrays and shit.
i mean you may encounter those, too. like in real life. or actual surfing.
which you may enjoy much more than poetry.
but after a while, if you want adventure, you can find and appreciate sharks and stuff. and you can learn to ride more and more bizarre or bigger or smaller
or more unpredictable waves.
you can get a desire for those. a fetish so to speak.
you know, this is precisely the kind of didacticism that is pretty unnecessary
