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
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.
I dance in honor of your wisdom and beauty,
and I dance in honor of your wrathful rage.
This is the only devotion I know.
i put down the notebook
and pickup the laptop
i want to go to sleep
but there are no words
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.
