my poetics: keeping simple simple is simple

poetry:

it's simple, it's about the song not the singer.

poetics is coming

i should have my "poetics" posted by thursday.. sorry for the delay

the and
and with
the season
the changing
and day
the prayers
the want
the free girl
and child-place

you may have heard about this discussion over slavery
and that it will only get better
but make sure you get the right information.
because people like Doug keep talking
“who is Doug?!”
don’t say you don’t know!
he is the first person to twitter from space
he said ‘press my thing and I’ll chat’
and since then, we actually had to give him
what we call a ‘makeunder’

we should not be honoring people
we are missing something--
can we hear it again?
"it can break, it can float, it can drift"
can we hear it again?
"it can break, it can float, it can drift"
can we hear it again?
"it can break, it can float, it can drift"
can we hear it again?
can we hear it again?
can we hear it again?

good morning

it was the ventilated night of boxers
it was the left tire home prevention program
matched up against external star-gazed loss
it was the eighth grade guacamole soulmate
making return with receipt (with child?)
it was the ten mile reunion fall,
fifteen minute independence
and five day water talking chewstick
it was the double fat American dirt camp
and it was walking—
walking through town, bay, and women sights
and it was the beach lie on Buddha time,
the homeless conversation hour,
and it was the lust seed in China street.
it was my shotgun marathon trip.

thanks for letting me listen to my music

Too far to trace Charleston lightning from mid-flatland to our California 69 boy in the ravioli game secret of your old college friend dunce momma hockey stick years back when then you had done the school thing, not me who not freed from sharing in the Carolina smiles and insisting old fads, fast food, and western sun passing through now other flatlands—other lands altogether—with “new solar homes” and me questioning thoughts of the frequented stops—remember Charleston?—trace those hills now but with different strokes (amigos): no virginity no Spanish to go home to—no home at all it seems besides unknown feathers and Hunter and the goddesses’ legs of earth with even hearts too open to recall on this day

he crossed things which
which would the mouth
with what does overhead falling
you said why things we

on place pretty school guns
system out zero eight
with what does overhead falling
you said why things we

all southern last in factor flat
the being so how friends
with what does overhead falling
you said why things we

bless this frisky risky japanese life

bless the saturday journalist

bless the pope
and jesus the california governor
and expansive lawns
and users of "folk medicine"

bless kobe bryant

bless life in the fast lane

bless everything all the time

sweet

Day 8:
high finish
earlier this week I apologized
-- another jigsaw falling

5:27 PM

I.

days old and small
we live free then die
waiting
waiting
on my garden mother
I fell away, around
the great future mountain—
chilling dolls:
they will kill culture
and the soul band—
we are stardust
and there are so many variables
in this private symphony space
we can’t leave
what we all share
we share in common
everywhere knowledge
perfect money
the best stories;
find the experience.



II.

Dear American Cheese,
you used to be the best.
and you were free.
I know you’re excited
about a legitimate chance to be back
but you don’t need the internet
God believes in you
and I love you
you are my mother

11:11AM

I.

now just a minute stop right there.
I don’t know you but don’t say a word.
shut the door. stay here.
hey what’s that sound?
zydeco?
it’s awkward, but almost stimulating.
keep it coming



II.
one summer from Chicago
with their hands in the busy wallflowers
they knew everything

wrong

I was wrong when I said Ginsberg's "America" and O'Hara's "Meditations in an Emergency" were indicative of a side of the Beat movement that was subtly narcissictic. I was wrong that such a side even exists. The narcissim was in the reader, not the poet. It's amazing how reality is truly a reflection of the mind. I read "America" as an expression of Ginsberg's insecurity, I imagined him writing it while sitting in a dark room with only a desk lamp, frustated, lost, and childlishly angry at all the things America was about and how he needed to criticize in order to feel certain of himself-- very emo. When I heard the recording of him reading it almost as a standup routine I realized that in actuality, I was the insecure one. I had imposed all of my internal struggles on poor old Allen and I did the same for O'Hara-- because of my own issues, I completely misinterpreted his irony. I have always heard that the weaknesses you see in others are in fact your own weaknesses. That shit is true!
I am really grateful for sound recordings! If it weren't for them, I would have never realized what an egocentric week I was living. Much love to UBU and pennsound! and many apologies to Allen and Frank for doubting them!

Anyway, I can't get enough of the Spicer selections in the book. such beautiful language

second week in septemberday

bright young cat:
released behind the garage bush
and bright young cat:
where I came to know no journaling square
digging for Hindu mother's breath
jogging forth from remember- you-when
(then with beard)

bright young cat
sleeping behind another garage
in this place so known as free
where stone buffets rolled down the hill
and into our arms

three hours away
in white we flew bright young cat
see see: sneaking lurking
but not lurking; re-claiming life
inside the 'staff-only' screen door
sitting with a song to myself
from inspired non-words and then
two drinks with breasts
tented by indigo glass

bright young cat stealing away
in Rhinebeck through that upstate air
through hills returning, replacing
again re-gaining the naked falls
without her drumsong
while we try to find anew;
a new gem and
moonrise over the whole country
the same that we
pedaled through without knowing,
without wanting: time
without looking beyond
the simple laughing return
of you bright young cat

10:07 PM

I.

I stopped here to listen to “Somewhere over the Rainbow”
and
I wanted to stop here for jazz
Why?
Cancer.
something went awfully wrong
as you just heard
cancer.
golly!
but
it’s somehow comforting to me--Yea!
I’m still a little high
but I think the rock
is a metaphor
for the illusion of habitat.
--it’s quicksand is what it is





II.

they forget:
very strong country demons
civilized butterflies

they call dreams:
order
and lost discontinuity

they take:
the end to the moon
with this something;
(a way to do,
to breathe)
it was restricted

show me
western moments after dark,

show me
long-winded praise,
or criticism done on days

show me now
things like this
that they confiscated

I want to hope;
because I will.
our name I lay down
to other countries

leviticus

The first time I ever heard of the Beat movement was in high school, after I had written a somewhat racy (well, racy for a catholic school) article for the newspaper and my chemistry teacher interuppted class to tell me that I should read On the Road. I had never heard of the beats but I heeded his advice and read the Kerouac classic in a few days.

I had always thought Mr. Ferris wanted me to read it because he thought I was the type of guy to emulate Dean Mortiary, but I just now realized that there is a big chance he was probably just trying to introduce me to that sort of writing style/arena.

Ironically, having to write these blog commentaries reminds me of that era, an era I thought I was done with. It was a time when I wrote snappy, opinionated editorials that were nothing short of being off-base. I felt oppressed by the academic system and feeding my ego was the only way I could maintain some dignity. It always felt dirty, but it always made a statement. It felt like I was being forced to think and do so many things that threatened the pureness of life and my individuality, so I silently lashed out in my articles. I was "intelligent" and quick to learn so I got good at putting myself as I challenged/criticized popular mindsets and issues (local and global). Everything had a very self-serving vibe (much like this blog I'm writing right now).

Among the things that were being imposed on me was poetry. In AP Lit I was assigned pages and pages of poetry and was expected to be able to intellectually discuss the poems in class the next morning. I never read the poems. I couldn't do it in such circumstances. No matter how much I wanted to enjoy the poems, I couldn't block out the expectations for an intellectual perspective. It seemed abstractly blasphemous. I liked poetry and I knew that I couldn't appreciate it while being expected to come at it with my left brain. As I said before: anything related to art is naturally right brain-- it seems unnecessary to pull in "logic". I want to be able to prove that I'm doing the readings, but I find it hard to look at any poetry in the light of analysis- even "artistic analysis". It's frustrating to me that I always end up ranting about this idea that "art is pure", "don't ask me to analyze!" because that seems just as self-serving as the editorials I used to write.

BLAHH!!!

7:02 PM

I.

shuffleboards,
Spanish cheese,
curling,
my hair,
the spark plugs,
the spirit of the bay:
I can feel it work

II.

I changed
I gave
I’m going
I think
I want
I have
I’ve seen
I run
I don’t


III.

there.
the deadbeats of society.
they are popping up around the valley.
Rodney said “the boss” sent them.
I must say, to be candid with you,
I’m as confused as you are.
Well, I changed my mind,
I’m not confused anymore.
but we’re gonna be here a while.
in other words..until the end of time.
so this time, give it to me easy.

IV

I gave
all kinds
of reasons:

if you
constantly inhale
maple syrup
to protest
the Canadians
it is
very bad
for you

3:50 PM

this economic situation has truly affected all of us
but I won’t fight it;
Switzerland,
along with Austria,
Luxembourg,
and several other countries
dropped me off on the side of the road today
--that’s what makes the difference:
I’m holding on to something that’s not going on now
while a lot of you are concerned even without the European bun.
and some people claim that there’s a Tuesday and Tuesday night
but this is a partnership with Mexico (from behind).
think about how many kinds of ringtones there are,
and the radioisotopes and the age of the Earth
--we just need to go to the doctor
we’re halfway there
a total eclipse of the sun is gonna make everything all right
like never before.

11:06PM

I.
we know how to show it,
we’d be singing at the top of our lungs,
the moon’s shining bright black magic,
and Charles Barkley, one of the best power forwards in the game--
so damn beautiful;
(he was the guy who smelled good)

the private collectors were getting a piece of this
and just to let you know what I mean, if you don’t know:
some Soviet soldiers had decided to stay,
they all won titles.
Father, preserve them from the evil one


II.
from east of the Rockies,
you tell me that you need me.
and that makes you even a better candidate for SWAT police.


III.
the sun comes up, the sun stays down
but on this bright winter’s day we immediately head north
and I’m burning! I’m burning!
how it made you laugh!
the maximum speed is 55 miles per hour for the vehicle you want
don’t be afraid
sometimes when I’m alone I wonder why gentlemen and women
frequent strip clubs, sit down, and have another beer in Mexico
--when it comes from you, you’re nuts right?
but there are times when you just can’t gather the words no more

7:28PM

I.

this is not going well, Where did I go wrong?
the righteous judge of the universe
lost to the Bobcats last week,
and 1 in 30 adults in Washington
are getting hardened like a stone.
and: out-of-work-technicians
(who need new skills)
could never take the place of Supper Central.
--their season is winding down.
Today, in Scottsdale, Jesus went up into the heavens
because people borrowed money;
what do you think of that?
do you know the place to go?
It’s zoom zoom time!
you know you don’t wanna leave;
unless your heart can sprout wings
I don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere fast


II.

Open your eyes!

We are 44th in the nation
--so we have light.
and we’re sleeping well.
and ya know,
high profile kitchen appliances are slowly accumulating in our bodies,
and everyday activities
are never more than thirty minutes away--

Clearly,
Evidently,
it doesn’t happen very often.
Can you believe it? A ham sandwich.
and I’m thinking to myself, “what’s gonna happen next?”

I remember, I remember:
‘minimizing Russia’s importance.’
--cuz we’ll never be wrong.

welcome to the savage nation.

11:36 PM

I.

and Years
after the second world war,
we still have no quantification,
no means of measuring these things
so how do you think you’ll try to quit?
you are required to carry chains, video games,
and everything else of value
because people change behaviors
it’s called statistical analysis--
you see it happen with tourists all the time
(it may change drastically
from one mile post to another)

II.

listen,
if you are a criminal and you’re wanted,
face a wall and raise your skirt
because I’m gonna spank you
and put your week of surprises in Washington.
then you can let them know
that you listened to them
in a place
that rarely gets snow in the middle of winter.



III.

it’s easier and faster when you fall,
so count the raindrops falling on you
when caterpillars emerge