nothing to write

It is with deep regret that the author informs you (in verse) …

there is nothing.
my heart cannot tell you
what my soul declines to loose
and my mind considers refuse
when the time ticks pock marks 
            in the chalk marks
                    around my dead hope.

i trust elsewhere
there is strength of will
where exists fortitude -
a dimension without latitude
for any volume of fragility
            no amount of civility
                    for lame excuses.

but tonight ...
on this section
of the fabric of time,
and here ...
past the inflection
of my flattened rhyme,
there is nothing.

 

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Photo by inturruptingcow

Simon, Garfunkel, Sly & the Family Stone Days

Sometimes a day feels like a conglomeration of Simon and Garfunkel songs.  It’s the sound of rainy fog, vacant hollows, and poetic harmonies that pour longing and a patient strife onto the table and unswept floor.  In between guitar strings, there’s an almost silence that gets eaten by another note, and another, until the song ends and a resonance purrs to completion.  The tune would be comforting, except in the end it gets snuffed out and those ignorant to its complexities fail to appreciate it, and don’t seek an encore.  Then the roadies (who think they’ve heard it all before) pack up the instruments and don’t think to tip the 20th waitress they’ve seen this year.

When that happens to you, don’t fret.  There’s always a  Sly & the Family Stone day around the corner!

Cheating with NaPoWriMo

National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) came along at the perfect time for this blog.  I’m using it to cheat.  Let me explain.

I made a pact in March that I would stop making excuses for not following my dream of becoming a writer.  I do have a good ones like working 50+ hours a week and being dirt tired and brainless when I get home everyday.  But I put myself in a little self-tough-love-hold and created a blog with the intent to write something, anything, no matter how bad – everyday.  I created a pseudonym for numerous reasons:  I’m a wimp; I love my paying job working with youth and don’t want third parties confusing artistic license and political views I might express with how sincere and passionate I am about helping youth succeed; I don’t want some of my family or even friends to see this side of me … yet … especially since I think some of it is no-talent mush.

But then I hit writer’s block.  I tried to jog my creativity by reading around and discovered NaPoWriMo and the challenge to write a poem every day this month.  I’ve got notebooks full of poetry.  So I am taking the easy way out until I can get back on track with my … other stuff.  But I feel I need to explain why I call this cheating.

To me (don’t be offended my poet friends), poetry is like telling a non-painter to create something, so he does it by pouring paint cans over his naked body and rolling on the canvas.  Nothing particular skillful about that, but he’s certainly provided something personal and interesting when he’s done.  He cheated.  Unlike great painters, he ignored style and form.  He’s no expressionist; his work doesn’t adhere to cubism, realism, surrealism, or impressionism.  Perhaps there’s an argument for Pollock-esque “action painting” but let’s be clear – I like his stuff, but I think Jackson Pollock cheated a little too.

Still, when this non-painter is done, he’s submitting to the world a product of his stripping down to his most vulnerable self, stepped out of his comfort zone, to provide something marginally worth seeing.  No one will probably stand in front of the final product and stare at the thing for long like a Monet, Kandinsky, Degas, Cezanne, or even Picasso.  But his work is still worthy of a glance or two, and certainly someone will no doubt find in it colors that click in their minds and really love it.

That’s poetry for me.  I don’t worry about form usually.  It captures the fragments that are in my skull and I don’t have to make any sense of it like with prose.

So I’m cheating with poetry this month.  And much of it comes from years ago when I was a wet-behind-the-ears punk and life was full of drama.  If you like my other stuff, keep checking back because it’s my true love.  When it returns I will continue planting it here.

Composition VII—according to Kandinsky, the mo...

Composition VII—according to Kandinsky, the most complex piece he ever painted (1913) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Drop (March 1999)

look away the maniac
thought once to be the brainiac
at living love and romance (drool),
thought without it life was cruel,
isn’t it ironic?
simply chronic.
what a migraine train
to Hades, ladies,
in first class seats
with nice clean sheets
to mess up with my love making.

shit on a shingle!
where’s Kris Kringle
when i’ve been good
hoping he would
bring me a present
nice and pleasant
somewhat matched
with no heartbreaks attached
(maybe even a picket fence
in some years hence)?
was that too much to ask for fat man?

pardon my rudeness
and excuse the crudeness
when i bash the past
although good to the last

drop.

and a drop is all i feel is left
after all i shared I’m bereft
of anything compared
to what i shared

call it lost or misplaced
unable to be traced
swindled or hijacked
without proper tact
stolen or thieved
i’m still left bereaved
of a piece
or a peace
(whichever you please)
of me that won’t regenerate
i feel like a degenerate
with more left to give
but no strength to give it.

but to live
and not give
would truly be
the epitome
of a dozen-a-dimeful
hazy and crimeful
living
breathing
bitterness seething
work of shame.