There are fireworks in my head.
Four or five other guys whispering at my ear.
From the inside.
I have spent all my life
simply trying to stay calm
and get along.
Ha. Haha. Ha.
I can hear the laughter
and I know who you are.
Sent a buddy a poem, draft form, but finished. Asked his opinion. This is what he told me.
These sorts of writings are not my cup of tea, but then I never could get much into Alan Ginsberg, either. Interesting maybe, but I just never was able to see the usefulness.
***
I took another look at the piece and I’ll just cut that whole part off. Sucks, it was the ending. Crisp even. Worry about self-censorship, but if I hesitate and you can see it, too, well, back burner it goes. For now. Thank you.
***
Took another look at your note and got to musing at your comments. I can get into some Ginsburg, certainly Howl. Think I probably dislike all but one percent of poetry. Just about finding somebody you like. I appreciate the prose poets like Bukowski, James Dickey & Frank Stafford. Springsteen and Dylan. School ruined me for rhyme.
***
I am writing like this because it’s how I see the words. The words arrive together. That’s how I hear them. And it’s a helluva lot of fun. Not much choice really. Spacing like this *** because don’t know how to use computer.
***
Also, trying to remember my past, my life. Can’t seem to recall in a linear sense and haven’t yet figured out how to piece together a readable account. True what they say about drugs and alcohol and your memory.
***
Art doesn’t have to be useful. But dawns on me the stuff has to be worth your time. I get that. That makes sense. To be honest, that was never a problem with me. Jobs were a problem. Alarms were a problem. Bosses, big problem.
***
Have no idea where I am going here. But then I didn’t have any idea where I was going when I started. Left without a map, and now here I am.