Introducing Poemcræft A Rough Thing I Found (uncorrected)

This entry is part 1 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

Charnel grounds are dangerous, horrifying, chaotic places. None of the meat-eaters are picky about whether you are dead (except vultures). They are happy to eat living visitors. Unburied corpses also attract demons—in the Indian imagination—and are likely to produce ghosts and vetalas (zombies).

That’s as perfect a description of poetry as I’ve ever heard; and it’s marks a philosophical (if not ideological) shift in the direction of the whole shebang. It’s a long one in coming. Forty years, perhaps, or two weeks—it depends on what cross section you choose to pick.

asip documents

asips waits for poems to show themselves and then tediously works to shape them into acceptable works

poemcraft expierences
poemsrafts accepts poems will live or die on their own merit. the strongest and most adapt poems will survive. the rest will die.

Over the last weeks (or possibly lifetime) I have been pursuing if truth can exist outside ideology; how reality is defined by a society’s prevailing ideology. In my case that’s something like global neoliberal consumerism under constitutional republic…is, beyond that,  hierarchy. scarcity. power and control.

I have been trying to find patterns in the thoughts and attitudes that don’t thrive here. This thin slice of spectrum is corrosive to deep exploration. I am impatient for the lack of fellow explorers; the lack of a possibility to have fellow explorers.

What if our demons aren’t so easily written off as codified mind states. What if our demons are completely real and hungry valid, and go by Indifference and Suspicion? You damn well better have some poems ready, because that’s what they eat.

Charnel grounds struck me as a revolutionary buddhism for the oppressed and dispossessed

The former name of the site, A Soul in Progress, reflected the philosophy that instantaneous poems that pop in and out of daily life are to be deliberately observed. Poemcraft begins with the understanding that reality, the whole chaotic mess, is the poem.

A Soul in Progress would painstakingly test the nuanced meaning of very word. Swirl through his dictionary looking for the closest possible match, and end up with a poem you could be proud of.

Poemcraft demands respect be paid the emergent poem.

asip finding
pc searcing/accepting/nourishing

A Soul in Progress was a nice leisurely stroll through a curated garden of illusionary discontent. Of loss. And guareded searching. It allowed me to see

socialist

Poemcraft is  an unfiltered

anarchist

but it’s fucking scary out there surrounded by the undead chorus of insistent poem.

Popping and going faster than you can capture. Faster than you can strive off. Blurs of gholish streaks.

The observant buddha will recognize I have changed the title of this site from A Soul in Progress to Poemcraft.

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Poemcraft

This entry is part 2 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

A poem that isn’t willing to fight for its life is not worth pursuing.

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Drifting

This entry is part 3 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

I’ve just realized something,
   the poet speaks,
as cars materialize and disappear
   tumbling wrong angles
on this malinformed trip

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Vignette in frosty light

This entry is part 4 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

You stumble out of a bar.
Then you’re sitting on a bench.
By the time you’re in the car you’re reading Bukowski.
You both laugh, until Charlie throws that killer punch of his.

Now there is silence.

Now there is silence.

A silent vignette in frosty light.

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face

This entry is part 5 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

I don’t want to cry in public
I’ve done it too much
He’ll say to the face
And scurry for the door.

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So, here's a problem. Do I retropost this with the original date? or do I let it go today without comment? To add to the dilemma, all I have is last modified date—which is actually last viewed date

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Send More Agony!

This entry is part 6 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

“Thanks for the bliss,
send more agony!”
the merry one cried
stumbling into place
along side the junkies
looking for their muse.

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Fine Edge

This entry is part 7 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

By the slimmest of margins this is either a disaster or it’s antonym, that thing I have no word for.

20140116-151539.jpg

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Even the Poem is Transitory

This entry is part 8 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

You have to exit poemspace sometimes.
If you wanna do anything else.

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The cat thing coexist

This entry is part 9 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

I can share the land with the cat. It can have the sunbeams and the cover of tall grass. It can have the mice and the grasshoppers.

I don’t have to try to make it comfortable, or befriend it, or coo over it. It seems happy, skinny as fuck, but happy.

It doesn’t need a name or a rank or any other external validation. It only needs to hunt and rest. It’s free to share the land.

I remember it being born

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Happy

This entry is part 10 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

Every time I hear bagpipes and locomotives I want to rewrite The Wind Cries Mary.

It’s always a joy and a disappointment. I am calmed and washed over with love for all sentient beings, secure in the knowledge that the Wind Cried Mary. But disappointment soon sets in when I feel hindered to experience my own distance.

Bagpipes and locomotives
I can hear in the distance.
Rolling on their way to you maybe now you can’t see them but you sigh and they disappear into the muck of a clouded mind until which time they are resurrected by the unseen and unknown forces of a time and a place.

Bagpipes and locomotives I can a’hear in the distance.

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