Notes and Scribblings

You're positively welcome for this most positive of outcomes one has to leave in order to come home Questing's for mythic heroes and nonesuch walk the earth those sorts only exist inside of poems. a murderer's more commonplace, our psychotic demons full of grace there's no monsters, ghosts, or magic crones. We wandered forty years despite our wisest counselor, fear as the pain grew more distracting in our bones And what did we discover? a few new friends some random lovers ultimately that we're denser than any stone. But what we lost was trash indeed the last shackles of our safe conceit in Tashkent, Helsinki, and Asuncion

I'm no Atlas, so why do my shoulders always ache? there's a shrunken old burled-out woman — my grandmas — squatting on each, make no mistake after nearly 50 years of carrying them around as light as they might be it feels like I've been all ground down just another victim of gravity screw these gifts, dear old ladies I loved you a lot in life but your legacy is nothing more than having to do everything twice it's not indolence that make me weak it's the erosion of my bones I'd love nothing more than to fly and leap but I'll be down here with the stones.

She's got me hooked or so she thinks but I'm not just any old fish you see: When your hook's near you're hooked to me. my mother is the kraken herself and my father eats his tail if he wakes your world will quake, and I'm the coffin nails rust and splinter I smell of winter dire and rough and grim within the bars of my ribcage is a prison frozen and dim wendigo shrieks his icy rage until I die, within but on the day my last breath fogs the pain I'm encased inside Hel will release her hunting dogs and all mankind shall die

a sequence of events naturally proceeds in linear fashion but as it were as a bee we approach things laterally our blind spots are the pigeonholes the cubbies of safely rigid prose an even number of fingers and toes ignoring the rot in every rose? no, we simply follow our nose information fidelity a word like apple has no taste as a symbol connected to reality yet as summer ekes the fall all ink on paper is just human waste on very real apples we will feed (hunger is a basic need) maggots come as blowflies go but when we're gone we won't know

Should I be that poet and tell you what to think? ... I did that, and then deleted it. I'm a poet, my work is my work and I'm gonna do it whether anybody likes it or not. I'm proud of it, it took a whole lot of serious work to get to this point of ability. I think I have a pretty good idea of how to tell people how to do it, but I don't think anybody but a poet could comprehend it fully (yeah and I don't much care if people think I'm a snob, I am just as much a snob as I am an insecure nightmare). The thing about me is I got this way by working obstinately towards what was for me an unachievable goal for the majority of my life until it killed me a few times, technically, and I just kinda gave up and well, all I had left was all these goddamn songs and stories in my head. And my kung fu, of course. Everybody has the potential to be a master, I reckon, and it's a pretty obvious road if one wants to go for it, it's just really hard and requires you to be n...