Posts Tagged why write
I drive in
early the morn,
I be beast
for the man
my cup says hope,
my brain says dope,
the man goes
my screen says,
is always present,
my screen blares
in dark forest.
I punch keyboards,
hope all fraud
and then I
poetry all day.
from the others.
I might be
if I could
poetry all day.
My editor, the pernicious devil. He
swims the baby pool with a knife, while
I stay away. I dive into the deepest
end of the big pool. He watches
with no concern. He says, “Carl,
sometime soon, you must bring
your pen or type little simple
things into shiny glass screens.”
I love being lost in the waters,
and though my swimming is rough,
freedom runs batshit crazy through
my veins as I hold my breath, knowing
I’ll survive, feeling strings of love and
words and pictures bubbling in my body, but
his cackles bring me to the surface, “Poem-
A-Day, I’ll cut you deep and wide, and
the people will hate your shit.”
I’ve been sold on so many things.
But I’m slow.
Too old to be slow.
Might die in 29
if you only give me 30.
Need infinite time
to create infinite art,
but I’m a wasted old man.
Accept my lack of time,
knowing my dreams are
Dream I might write one,
just one, artistic poem, but
while I might finish,
it will never be good,
so I’m at peace
with my infinite inadequacy,
fueling my hopelessness,
but fighting my restlessness,
and putting it away.
So many say they can write, and here I add pink flurries
to the leaning stack, as gargoyles snort snot and
hang from my eyebrows laughing at my twisted,
sick, inadequate brain, and the excuses grab
my knee caps, rip them out, and the man on the corner
snickers. I don’t say I can bake. Why am I compelled
to write? I spy on the snake that guts, rather swallows whole,
all the other writers, and he and I drink grape juice at all the futility,
and the man on the corner hands me Pessoa, tells me
to read this, this that will tell me why I can’t
write, but the ants keep crawling up my
ass, while the gargoyles jump in the man’s pipe, burning
up into little leaves that blow up toward dirty clouds, and I keep
trying like a little baby with nothing to say worth anything.
An apology doesn’t seem necessary, but sometimes I like to work at explaining my failures. I thought the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day effort for National Poetry Month would be a good thing for me to join in on, but I should have considered it more carefully. (I wanted to understand why some things get a day, some a week, and then poetry gets a month. Puppies only get one day, and if I were in charge, I’d give puppies a whole month and strip poetry down to one day with the side benefit of only needing to write one poem each year in celebration; however, I think it’s not that way because puppies don’t need much help in being lovable, but poetry sure does.)
I didn’t start PAD until the fourth day, clearly demonstrating my propensity for procrastination, but I thought no problem, Read the rest of this entry »
PAD day 13 instructed us to write a comparison poem of some type.
Art in Writing
Art’s not puerile, but childhood
is fair, not the same old thing,
not dual combinations of words
heard thousands of times, not
preachy but will often teach, will
lighten the world we’re in with
truth, something you might read
twice or more, where art will
say a thousand different things
on a thousand different reads,
where you may need to think
and think hard, but when
not art, you’re expected not
to think, not to question, not to
slow down, so how to enjoy?
PAD 10 requires a poem about suffering, which I’ve never done before, but I decided to craft a Cinquain.
What Is Wrong at this Moment Right Now
I brew alone,
but when I don’t fight back,
when I ask myself what’s wrong now,
This is my late submission for PAD Day 3. My dog ate the first one and that is why this is so late. The prompt for this day was to write a poem on something tentative.
Lightly, Not Trespassing
Her ego, too large, but perhaps not,
might it be a sensitive soul,
needing defense, causing compassion,
and I’ve fallen in, or have I?
She talks of her fans. They love
her, cause her to be reticent in shar-
ing, about how close they get to her,
and I want to be one, a fan, close to her.
More of her takes me into deep, warm
areas, and I must hold back, not tell
her any truth about my desires, so I
watch her, shiver, downed by longing.
Late to the game, I am attempting the Writer’s Digest Poem A Day Challenge for National Poetry Month. I’ll catch up on the prior day on some other day. Today’s was to write a poem which has a title that begins with “Hold That ______”
Hold That Noise
Morning fills with the whirring
of how I might do well today,
and then cacophony
of justification, of defense,
of false comfort, for when
I get here, I’m lost, for-
saken, worthless, dreaming
of when I might do well.
Here today, things started to change dramatically.
Do you know, when I just said that, I knew it was false,
but it’s hope, so fuck ’em. So for a few minutes, I thought,
I might be a writer. To me, that meant I might be a decent
human being. I have this blind sense that humans need to
have a central purpose, a reason for going on despite all
the facts that seem to recommend action to the contrary, but
it is blind because I don’t know other humans well enough
to know that they need a purpose. In fact, often, I wonder
how these integrated, bloated masses of people get along
without purpose because they simply trudge through, yes,
contented, but vacuous, contented with eating three meals,
with chips and snacks and pops, and weekend trips to the
lake ( THE fucking lake), and working on these schedules
that are preposterous, barely having time to hug the dog,
rarely awaking without an alarm designed to send humans
into blind destitute, where they don’t know how empty all of the
facades are, and I sit here, wanting to spit on my new pants,
wanting to throw the cafeteria tray across the room, blowing
out the perfectly-clean window which teases me with a Zen
garden that is never used for true purpose, not for lack of need,
but because the minds are entrapped in this buzzing hum
of doing what responsible adults and other gurus have told us
we are meant to do, despite our god-given sense that we waste
this gift of life every day, each day with these millions of
moments that spin down clockwise through snake-cleaned
drains made of the detritus of all of the gold we mined in the
good days when living in a tent and eating smoked rabbit
was a good thing. Here I am praying for a revolution that will
turn me into a writer and allow me to live out my days,
comfortable in some sense of purpose, praying that there
are people who might read and might be changed in the
slightest, because if I can touch a few people with writing and
eat a bit of rabbit, what would be wrong with me, but I’m scared
in the end, remembering those nightmares of walking out of
my tent and hanging myself with heavy rope on the sturdy,
horizontal limb of the old oak tree, ending what seems to be a
useless quest, a useless longing to rid myself of this vast,
empty purposelessness. And here I am wondering what kind
of stupid fuck would write about writing, and I stop. I’m due
back in my cubicle.