“It all stems from my fear of oranges.”
“Oranges as in the fruit, or oranges as in the hues?”
“Don’t even get me started on Hughs. I have a cousin named Hugh who puts his feet in suitcases six times a day. Try to figure that one out.”
“I meant hues as in… never mind. Suitcases? Does he travel a lot?”
“Wow, what an insightful question.”
Too many lolligagging pricks sitting around drinking tea and charming snakes from baskets. Everywhere you look, reptiles succumb to the suggestive power of complacent know-it-alls.
Am I going to have to be the one to stop it? You’re cowards, all of you. Oh, so some snakes are poisonous? Some lazy fools might have a violent edge? Boo hoo; that’s the way of the world, people.
Whatever happened to suggesting alternative pastimes? Clearly these serpent-loving lumps are just looking for attention in the least difficult way, and voila, they’ve got it. A full-page spread in the Herald, for Christ’s sake. Good thing nobody reads the paper anymore.
The tollway ground its feet in muck today
to boost a no good scoundrel past the cops.
But why, you ask? Make law enforcement try.
They have to nab their man, finger their perp,
throw the book at him, put him in the clink,
throw away the key, take away his stuff,
serve him all his meals, make him break some rocks,
tell him he’s no good, beat him if he’s smart.
The justice system sits around and gloats;
they’ve got old Uncle Sam behind their cause.
Gruff and angry, aftershave aplenty.
For the most part–as we say around here–no longer does the swan neck riverboat captain hang a hopeful liturgy dispelling the climate of zesty zebra hooves in the sand; an antelope gawks at this critical misstep, but only for a second–it flees from a cackling hyena whose bark is much worse than its bite.
It’s rare that I post twice about myself without a poem. I could go through this site’s archives and try to prove just how rare it is (probably lower than 1%), but you’ll just have to take my word for it.
My inspiration used to be a sound; the beginning of the first word that unfolds into the second, forming a phrase and a mood. Then the piece would mature from that seedling.
Would I say that’s still my process? I believe I create the same way, just with more inhibitions. I don’t know what to call this hesitation, other than the overbearing feeling that writing poems is unproductive and won’t possibly get me any money.
The Corporation of America is really dragging on me. The ironic thing is that if I keep writing poems and remain prolific, I’ll feel more comfortable with my own process and find more excuses to create.
For right now, I notice that my inspiration ebbs and flows; I used to only need a spark of a syllable or a sharp image, but now I need an opener. I’ve actually scribbled down a good number of unused rock band names that I believe will be the inspiration for my next batch of poems.
The great thing about using these band names–I have titles for my poems! I don’t need to go fishing once I’ve finished writing a little jewel. That settles a bit of my tension.
Okay, enough venting. You’ve had enough.
Poetry is difficult, and I understand that as well as anyone. I’m guilty of not reading the craft of condensed literary art– I’m too busy making my own. I don’t think that’s a crime, though I do feel as though I need a little push and pull in that reading and writing relationship (as it pertains to poetry).
As that thought rolls through my mind, I make another excuse for myself. To read one’s poetry is to peer into their psyche at that moment in time. Some poems have been dashed out and you can feel the emotion dripping from the page. Some are meticulously molded and caressed until they’ve become their own emotion, their own being. I appreciate it all, I truly do. So I’ve decided that since I’m a 22 year-old artist, my time is best spent inward and focused upon the constant reinforcement of my personal craft.
By this point, my early inspirations are solid. So now I must draw from that insane bird’s nest in my neocortex. This excuse placates me considerably. I will read poetry in time, when my own creations are living and breathing among the others in the community. An author only truly realizes his / her potential when their word babies are sent off to frolic in the playground with their peers. Then the responsibility shifts to maintaining a comfortable level of awareness; keeping an eye out in the neighborhood.
In summation, I will continue to write poems. Poems are fun, lovely, colorful, evocative, rhythmic, short, comical, universal, tragic, satirical, whatever you want them to be. They’re fucking brilliant, pardon my French. I’m a bubble in this world, and my poems still reside there. I’m grateful to my reader base (Yes, I’m talking to you!) for gracing my page with your presence. You are the reason I strive to create innovation and invent new language. You. I hope to speak with more of you in the future, to give my gifts to you.
I love this place called Earth, this unfolding forum of higher ambitions that won’t cease as long as we take our responsibilities as thinking beings seriously.
Exuberance flies through the mouth of a hog;
that tenderloin needs a few days.
Burrow in a barn and send up a flare
when the farmer picks up his old pitchfork.
The crows don’t seem to mind the cold;
they didn’t invest in a timeshare.
The kitchen smells like onions and bacon grease.
A gaunt man wearing a fur hat and beat up blue parka twiddles his thumbs on a Sunday morning in Central Park.
A casual observer would ask: “Well isn’t there a chess game he could be playing right now? I mean, who twiddles his thumbs these days anyway? Is he counting the number of twiddles? How many twiddles are possible in a minute? How long has he been twiddling? Maybe he twiddled here last night and kept twiddling straight through to the dawn. God, I’ve been standing here observing this man, and I’m afraid to go up and ask him what his deal is.”
The refrigerator holds an endless supply of charming dental whiplash for perusal at a moment’s notice; territorial shotgunning beating corridor hymnals to the moon and back with exceptional speed.
Suspend images through honey rollers and feather breakneck sausage patties atop unlaid bricks and mortar. It doesn’t take much when you really think about it.
The versatile, edible almond–taken for granted–roasted, salted, packed into tins. They wait, unbreathing. They see the intricacies of the rigid universe–the spheres and hues and flocking birds–from their sealed vantage point. They take it higher, to philosophy, faith and free will. They struggle to imagine how their brethren must feel out in the air, mobile and frolicking.
Then the time comes–they’re sold from the shelf and taken to a suburban single-family home. A mother’s hand blends them with other trail mix elements–raisins, pretzels, seeds and chocolate bits, all gasping freedom for those sweet few seconds. Then they’re sealed in a tupperware and relegated to the pantry.
United in their unrelenting tender curiosity, the diverse bunch engages in a forum covering ideal existence–the tupperware tips them into snack bags as they reminisce over the life they lived with their snack-based kindred souls.
The final frontier awaits them now, the mystery of the brown paper bag.
I spent my educational life pursuing beauty for the sake of growth and maturation.
Now I enter the professional world, which seems to have simplified into the basic pursuit of survival.
I have to ground myself and convert the skills I gained from poetic thought and colorful patterns into profitable systems for comfortable living.
I have to compromise on several (if not many) of my steadfast principles in order to compete on the standard level of business.
So be it; I enjoyed a glut of time for ruminating and thinking, and the next logical step is doing.
I’ve been launched into the dog-eat-dog society from a nurturing upbringing, and not until I find my footing in this ever-morphing, needlessly challenging social structure can I fall back on my idea-based existence.
Now it’s just a matter of doing.
2013, are you with me?