I get upset sometimes when no one comments on a poem I’ve posted. It’s happened with more regularity lately.

I realize that’s my ego talking. Damn ego!

But I also have begun to realize that I’m finally starting not to care if people like a given poem. I’m starting to think that I’m writing these poems strictly for me, and if people don’t want to go along, that’s not the end of things.

I’m not even all that interested anymore if they’re “good” poems or not. After completing “Jim’s Fall” I’ve kind of moved to a point where I’m experimenting for me, looking for the next thing, looking at ways to change what I do.

I’m certainly not giving two shits about whether they “slam well;” I gave that up years ago, although there are times when it still raises its head for me. I do think of the performance aspects, of course; that will not go away ever, I think.

But I’m tired of easy poems. I’m tired of writing for the broadest possible audience. I want those who read and appreciate my work to be intelligent and thoughtful and willing to dig a bit. I’m tired of feeling a need to be populist.

If the work I’m doing now doesn’t work the way it used to, maybe it’s getting to where I need it to be.

I’m hearing from the grapevine that Francis “Woody” Woodbridge has passed.

For those of you from out of town who have been to the Hut, you may recall Woody as the blind man with the voice of God who read so frequently in our open mikes.

Woody was a true survivor of the Sixties and a heck of a character. I know stories about him from his youth that would frighten and amaze you, some of which can’t be told even now.

This hurts.

Heading to Chicago to do some training and make a little money. Back Thursday night. Will update more later…