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.
Warning Dark Roads Ahead
I have embarked on a most ambitious piece. It’s going to be painful and it gonna be long. It might scare you or embarrass me.
I might seem to become bizarre, disorganized, and riddled with mind-numbing pain. Be not concerned, I assure you I will be!
Call it Process or Method, Madness or the First Realm. “Call it shame or being abashed or trying again, for the last time, to return.” Call it Feeling.
If Cummings is to be believed, a poet’s job is to feel, and if I’m gonna feel anyway…I might as well give up and accept the mantle, amn’t l obliged?
So…Poet, it is, then.
A mad poet on a mad quest. And during that trek some bad lands and the messages you receive will seem scary and bizarre and riddled with mind-numbing pain. They will pop in and out of virtual existence, ghosts whispering in wasnever. Poems will flash before your eyes and with every blink you will question if they were even there. Scary things and gloomy things and heart-rendering stop it things will rush by will be distilled and fitted and molded and crafted into a final work which will be something worthwhile if not worth the effort.
Sometimes this is also the way poetry is done.
“but the song carries on…so holy”
Catch Bull at Four is my favorite album. I molded myself on it. My loyalty and love and honor were forged from it. My dismay at injustice and deliberate hurt, too, were formed within. The album swings from brightest optimism to darkest despair; both seemingly stemming from the same unjust universe.
Buy it, or listen below, but if you are susceptible to crying, bring tissues, there’s a high likelihood of tearing up—the second side will sneak up on you.
The Observable Universe a work in progress
“Imagine a bubble!” he shouts at the audience.
“Imagine I’m surrounded by a bubble
whisper thin and darkness beyond”
He shouts at the void
“My observable universe extends for two feet in all directions
it is populated with me of course and memories of you”
“My observable universe is fueled by love
and ceases up like everything else
in the heat death
a pristine perfect shuttle frozen in position
which, once dislodged, will weave love into the universal constants themselves
which once again will be woven from and through itself”
he shouts at the sublime fabric
bad news
For a brief instance I almost convinced myself I had reason to live. But even during that flare up I didn’t really, I wanted to. I did. I did. I dreamed. I hoped. I prayed. I am only reminded again that I don’t haven’t and won’t.