I write a regular column for the Gotpoetry.com site on various aspects of poetry and the “poetic life,” whatever that means…
Latest missive is now posted, a short and opinionated (is there any other kind?) treatise on “beginner’s poetry.”
Comments there, if you so desire…
http://www.gotpoetry.com/News/article/sid=40613.html
Suckin’ em down —
bagels, English muffins,
half loaves of bread —
better than Prozac, better than
therapy,
hell, they are therapy —
“scientists theorize that
the craving for carbohydrates
is a symptom of clinical depression –”
of course it is. I’ve breakfasted and lunched
my way through a lot of clinical depression.
My waistline is my safety agreement —
tells me, “keep me fat on hearty breads,
loaves, no fishes, no greens, no fruits —
I’ll make sure you’re too heavy for the rope,
too fat to reach for the gun under the mattress –”
It’s working. It’s working!
I’ll have a cigarette and keep to the couch,
keep writing, keep at it,
crumb king, face full of baguette
for that existentialist atmosphere —
Goddamn,
I’m happy!
Nothing poetic about this:
doesn’t matter what I’ve said,
written, blurted, spat, or spewed before:
no reason to parse this, scan this,
I’ll admit it’s no poem worthy of the name:
no rapper, slammer, academic voice
worth its breath here:
don’t care.
What I say now is just said
for its naked meaning:
live. Live. The art will come
from that, but later. For now,
just live.
Dark Matter 