long’s I can overcome the compunction thet, –that coil of dread, and loathing! surrounding..apprehension I’ll leave this earth – unexpectedly – and with it my poems, jettisoned in whatever state, –only for the cops and others to muse at, as they leaf through pocket notebooks filled with thee innermost thoughts, of sophistries dissecting enigmas, etc., scribbled attempts, at ___, whatever, –and any other abandoned property’s in process (of going): “‘Poet’s are like weeds, eventually the county gets ’em all.’ Ha-ha, great, yeah, here’s a poet for sure, he’ll get a year for this, at least; if he can stand befoure the judge et al, Hm! better check him for a pulse, okay he’s dead, –Let’s..go get some lunch.”
So there’s poets..and that’s that; and then there’s the others. What is the difference between a performance-artist, and an ordinary kook? Both are poets, arguably, and certainly not-for-profit neither of ’em, but, –the poetry element, that aspect is the nut of it, the whole bur-rito! willful abuse of the brain’s waves, and their readiness to concatenate..reduce to paste and smear ‘cross the universe, every anecdote of the artist’s ‘ntire history from the beginning to fulfill..burning desire to tell his story, WHAT HAPPENED! while aboard the big blue planet on her course throughout the adjoining cosmos’s..and beyond! singing out “AHOY MATES!” to all the captives, passing in the halls..particularly those we loved; and occasionally, saying an awful poem to ’em (hopefully you weren’t friends, ‘besty’s’), –quick! ready or not..Be still, my beating heart! (no wait better re-think that).
Who can forgive poet’s? can it be done?? ‘t waren’t easier to summon all the performance artists, as such, line ’em up in ranks and say, “I love you.” and walk away? (Kooks we’ll always have with us, they’re simpler, probably, than the perf-ar’ts, to address with a full, unconditioned pardon..for being a nut.)
But poets? what balls! They think they have a corner on the depths, as though everybody ignores everything profound; if he didn’t make some kind of shorthand notation about it, statement, or declaration on a handy scrap of paper; and do it, in a couple of lines, Poets! everyday they’re on a mission to find some poor challenged soul and challenge him even more..with same verses that’ve occurred on previous occasions, re-peat’s! most likely under night’s dark tent – while perusing the second heaven’s inky, upside-doon swimming pool, there, above your head, “..quasar-y jiggling lights..ships under starry sail, billowing, in the quantifiable winds (containing my own reflection, too, et cetera&etc.) and piloted by, ah, the you-know-who’s!” – as you can no doubt recall, from any other o’ the preceding redundancy’s in the notebooks (if found on him, of course) and if anyone cares to read them (for whomever cares),THEM! right there..in his pocket. But forgive him all of that, because, –not because he’s laying there, getting cold, already, but because he couldn’t just sit standing, in the fenced backyard, seeing his breath turn to frost in front of him and think of nothing, like a good nihilist..with no moon for illumination while the dog’s peeing in the deeper shadows someplace, hunched-over, around right before about bedtime. Yes! we’re going to bed, now, like the normal people; after all, at some point, most likely out of pure desperation, panic! poets, too, will join the middle classes, ‘ventually, they just refuse to admit it as a possible outcome, –publicly at least..sure! they’ll deny it; but looking at bathroom’s mirror, in soft light, privily, with a deep, abiding sense of self loathing’s entirely another matter; and still, in the face of all of it, eventually takes up pen, a-gain, mightier than the stork! with no objection of conscience, –sorry about that, gotta go. See-ya
Well..I guess that’s a-boot eet, then. Have I forgotten something,SOMETHING I might add? So! let’s just go down the poetry’s checklist’s and see..what’s-what: 1) Wide ocean and its unknowable depths, all full-a creatures slipping ’round, beneath the slime, –check; 2) Mom..we’ll leave Mother out of this, NEXT! nocturnal’s skies..made outta black, cool crude on ice, yeh! massive tile sections, gas-welded together, and punched through with, ohh, like, an ice-pick, or something like that..gargantuan hand-drill, maybe, grip’d by somebody, –Somebody, with a capital S! so the lights can peek through, look in on the insomniac’s, –that’s us, check! maybe have a few space ships scudding ’round amongst fluffy clouds for optics’ sake (left that part out, –on purpose! okay, so I appended the allusion to-‘t, there, it’s fixed! 3) what else..oh yeah, the mortality-thing (DOUBLE-CHECK!), there, it’s handled! it got handled..so you won’t have to worry.
Okay, so that’s it, it’s covered, mostly I’m done now know why? because it’s morning, a beautiful sunrise again..and about time for the dog to be let out..O-U-T out! (she has to go to the bathroom, the dog bathroom). Be back with the next exciting installment of poem’s; and soon, maybe. OK,
I love you, bye.
“God bless us everyone.” ~Dickens