Category: Nonfiction

The question that I face on a daily basis usually goes like this:

There’s nothing that I’d like to do at this moment, so how do I move forward?

In my experience, what usually comes next is the postulation and defense of my abilities without any actual demonstration, save a word or two on the subject.

That’s obviously unacceptable for a person as unproved as myself. Who cares if I’ve composed over 400 poems if they haven’t reached the people who matter, the difference makers?

Well, I do.

But, how do I know that this assault of poetry is even worth the space it takes up, let alone the praise of my peers for its originality?

Let’s just chalk it up to a gut feeling.

So at this point, I’ve reinforced my narcissism and afforded myself more time to concoct my linguistic nightmares. They can only get better as I move forward.

Looking back at my first pieces, my work was bulky and unfocused; sometimes a single poem would hold the contents and themes of four or five distinct pieces. This stemmed from the idea that in order to compete with other writers, I had to jam-pack my work and out-muscle their imagery.

When I jump back to the present, four years later, my definition of a poem has dramatically shifted, and is constantly morphing according to the experience I’ve gained within the craft. I see as much validity in a two-word poem as I do in a fifteen-page one.

Now that I understand my place in this big ol’ world of artful writers, all that’s left to do is WRITE.

But of course, I wouldn’t be an artist if I could just write away the hours of the day (wow, what a rhyme).

My writing represents 1% of my time; the other 99% is existential dross and backpedaling in the name of the art. How can I write worthwhile stuff if I haven’t put the sufficient thought into it?

Some of the pieces I flip into existence don’t seem to contain much thought, and in fact resemble thin veneers of this thing we call reality (or surrealism). Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a way to explain these.

No matter what the piece’s contents or length, as long as I enter that special little cave of my subconscious through the duration of its composition, I am satisfied with the words that ensue. Quality over quantity, baby.

All this justification of the craft of poetry really makes me want to jot one out for you, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. You see, you never know when a person will gain the inspiration to create the next great work of art. Honest!

So here it is, the poem to come out of January 4, 2014 at 3:37 PM Central DST:

What’s your deal with fish and chips?
I understand the relationship between protein and potatoes,
but that doesn’t explain the cutesy phrase
falling out of the mouths of millions of unsuspecting diners
at any point during a Friday afternoon in the developed world
(and perhaps in the developing world to a lesser extent).

I know this is a loaded question to ask a waiter,
especially one who just wants to take my order already.

Don’t worry, I’ll let you go soon enough.
Just please, pay attention to me
for at least fifteen seconds more.

Why do I want attention? Honestly, I don’t want attention.

My words want attention. I want attention for my words, not my ego. Do I need to develop an overactive, self-indulgent, ridiculously aggressive ego in order to do anything with my life that makes me seem like an important person?

What is importance? There’s no such thing as something being innately more important than anything else. Nature seems to understand this, yet humans decided that they don’t belong to the natural cycle that they step on and choke every day. The soul of a chicken is useless to the soul of a human until that chicken’s energy is converted into food matter and consumed by that human. By that point, the chicken’s soul has already transcended this plane and begun the selection process for another life somewhere in this universe (or perhaps another). That soul will earn an upgrade for its devout service to Earth’s common good.

What’s my problem? I want my words to be read by people, and I want to be able to write these words for my life, undisturbed, peaceful, constantly inventing. That’s what I was brought into this shitty world to do, but I won’t be allowed a comfortable living if I insist on doing it like some sort of maverick poet. How dare I wish to explore the forefront of language to attempt a deeper connection with the cosmos?! I’m a real piece of work.

What happened to the time where sputtering out trivial fantasies had its place in life, had value and a genuine right to exist in the sphere? It must still be around here somewhere, but I need a little help to find it.

Since the totality of existence is comprised of infinite facets of one thought and one moment, tapping into the creative consciousness takes no more than a few seconds of earnest exploration. For example:

Tulip slipper guardians wear rings the size of their fists. They’re not very practical, the guardians nor the rings, but that doesn’t matter when the bulk of their livelihood is concentrated upon the judgment of ornate flowers and involves virtually no physical labor. Contests are held once per month (as the tulips bloom) in Snidely Square, and no person has ever won more than once. Odd when you consider the fact that there has never been a grouping larger than ten contestants in each of the first thirty-three affairs. Nole Gronsky, head judge and Snidely Square curator, takes pride in diversity, and will not let a winner (or a second-place finisher, for that matter) participate in another contest until their age has doubled from the last contest in which they participated. Marge Franklin is first on the list to compete after winning. She was twenty-three years of age upon attaining the title, and the event happened sixteen years ago. When asked how she’s been biding her time, Marge simply said: “Oh yes, I do suppose I’d like to try that again. Thanks for reminding me.”