Some Of This Nonsense Is Wisdom
Posted: September 5th, 2011, 4:28 am
i
ok
i must make my narrator interesting
trustworthy
i have only a 4 yr degree
in English but
in literature
not creative writing
oh, this introduction is losing
interest
nothing exciting
no blue angels in formation
roaring
overhead
and in-between the ears
i had to throw that in
that was unpredictable
but
i haven't justified myself
(as if you cared)
some of you are still scratching your ass
some of your are looking for Peace in the newspaper
some of you are reading email
and texting on an ipod or Blackberry or whatever
while you read this
i haven't justified myself
the cinnamon hasn't been sprinkled
the tap-dancing hasn't sounded like rain
oh, that is not enough
too few verbal pyrotechnics
this dialogue so predictable
if you know me
am i important to anyone beyond myself?
the answer is a frying pan in the face
the ego's shell is thin
and my introduction is like Tristram Shandy's
or something out of Kingsley Amis
Brett Ellis Wallace Foster
huh?
i fling highland jigs at ya
yes, sword dance
swizzle a fencing blade in the air
and stick it under your nose
touche' or touch
same thing
maybe
writing is all about ambiguity
or feigned ambiguity
or sleds making their mark in the snow
not too powdery
or too deep
just hard enough to support the blade
that duels with you
in a conscious mixed or mutated metaphor
and is this language poetry?
why do i mention poetry?
it is a monologue without a genre
no bip-bop-bip-bip-bop
of old hippies huddled outside
a co-op grocery on the Haight
the cigarettes glowing at 6 a.m. Pacific Coast time
how such down-and-outers can afford the smokes?
the tremors, shakes, jitters, yes,
but not the smokes
i am not being elegant
i am untrained
not house-broken
i just love the self-indulgent listing
of fleeting thoughts
like steam from a whistling coffee pot
I feel like Carl Sandburg
kind of
or a Beat
but i'm not cool
just a man
a woman could get away with this crap
there are societies of sisters
but guys are
yesterday's poets
our desires are ignored
yes the one with the ***** rules
maybe that's why we are so violent
or drink too much
or cuss
like a freighter flopping the green water on its seabed
it is a crime
for a guy to complain
yeah, we are supposed to have it all
but it is the 2%
the rest are unauthorized poets
grunting in the pen
happy with whatever is thrown our way
some of us lucky
but others
i watch too little TV
I walk too little in the sunshine
take not enough in
write a suburban-urban middle class
homogenized American monologue
the experience not ethnic enough
i write a literature of complaint
not praise
and that is a crime
if you are deemed privileged
but you aren't of the two per cent
is this poetry?
is this the stuff editors luv?
the old hippies go to sleep
they have better dreams
i try to keep my emotions free
contained
let them seep into my poems
keep what i think quiet
becuz
too impulsive, brash
throwing a half a cup of coffee at you
and i don't want to upset you
though i'm frustrated
the only thing i got due
is death
rhymes with breath
death
what an exhale!
many lines ago
i wanted to go someplace else
rattle those pots and pans
kick up the barnyard dust
get those hens cackling
laying eggs
i wanted to dream Chicago
the lake
the architecture
so many adjectives could cling to those nouns
but i'm lazy
a San Francisco bum
trying to stay out of Oakland
and a sure mugging
cause people who sweat stink
and the world is cruel
not doily nice if you hit the road
without money or a song
most people luv half-assed musicians
who can feign a tune
maybe do a jazz riff
maybe some broadway show biz whiff of sound
but to be negative
why am i negative?
so doubting?
so unassertive except to complain
but a poor bit of humanity
the would-be artist
who draws portraits with chalk
on the sidewalk
begging, praying a picture of Christ
will get a buck
i should write about relationships
everybody duz
I feel like Leonard Cohen
God, i like Cohen's songs
Everybody Knows
but they don't
my monologues don't end
they go in their tunnels
and you can't hear the endless
jib-jab of words
dancing their caricatures
or picking bouquets
the thankfulness and the desires
and the fears
the conjunctions are everything
in a life
the ands
and/or the ors
some of this nonsense
is wisdom, you know?
ok
i must make my narrator interesting
trustworthy
i have only a 4 yr degree
in English but
in literature
not creative writing
oh, this introduction is losing
interest
nothing exciting
no blue angels in formation
roaring
overhead
and in-between the ears
i had to throw that in
that was unpredictable
but
i haven't justified myself
(as if you cared)
some of you are still scratching your ass
some of your are looking for Peace in the newspaper
some of you are reading email
and texting on an ipod or Blackberry or whatever
while you read this
i haven't justified myself
the cinnamon hasn't been sprinkled
the tap-dancing hasn't sounded like rain
oh, that is not enough
too few verbal pyrotechnics
this dialogue so predictable
if you know me
am i important to anyone beyond myself?
the answer is a frying pan in the face
the ego's shell is thin
and my introduction is like Tristram Shandy's
or something out of Kingsley Amis
Brett Ellis Wallace Foster
huh?
i fling highland jigs at ya
yes, sword dance
swizzle a fencing blade in the air
and stick it under your nose
touche' or touch
same thing
maybe
writing is all about ambiguity
or feigned ambiguity
or sleds making their mark in the snow
not too powdery
or too deep
just hard enough to support the blade
that duels with you
in a conscious mixed or mutated metaphor
and is this language poetry?
why do i mention poetry?
it is a monologue without a genre
no bip-bop-bip-bip-bop
of old hippies huddled outside
a co-op grocery on the Haight
the cigarettes glowing at 6 a.m. Pacific Coast time
how such down-and-outers can afford the smokes?
the tremors, shakes, jitters, yes,
but not the smokes
i am not being elegant
i am untrained
not house-broken
i just love the self-indulgent listing
of fleeting thoughts
like steam from a whistling coffee pot
I feel like Carl Sandburg
kind of
or a Beat
but i'm not cool
just a man
a woman could get away with this crap
there are societies of sisters
but guys are
yesterday's poets
our desires are ignored
yes the one with the ***** rules
maybe that's why we are so violent
or drink too much
or cuss
like a freighter flopping the green water on its seabed
it is a crime
for a guy to complain
yeah, we are supposed to have it all
but it is the 2%
the rest are unauthorized poets
grunting in the pen
happy with whatever is thrown our way
some of us lucky
but others
i watch too little TV
I walk too little in the sunshine
take not enough in
write a suburban-urban middle class
homogenized American monologue
the experience not ethnic enough
i write a literature of complaint
not praise
and that is a crime
if you are deemed privileged
but you aren't of the two per cent
is this poetry?
is this the stuff editors luv?
the old hippies go to sleep
they have better dreams
i try to keep my emotions free
contained
let them seep into my poems
keep what i think quiet
becuz
too impulsive, brash
throwing a half a cup of coffee at you
and i don't want to upset you
though i'm frustrated
the only thing i got due
is death
rhymes with breath
death
what an exhale!
many lines ago
i wanted to go someplace else
rattle those pots and pans
kick up the barnyard dust
get those hens cackling
laying eggs
i wanted to dream Chicago
the lake
the architecture
so many adjectives could cling to those nouns
but i'm lazy
a San Francisco bum
trying to stay out of Oakland
and a sure mugging
cause people who sweat stink
and the world is cruel
not doily nice if you hit the road
without money or a song
most people luv half-assed musicians
who can feign a tune
maybe do a jazz riff
maybe some broadway show biz whiff of sound
but to be negative
why am i negative?
so doubting?
so unassertive except to complain
but a poor bit of humanity
the would-be artist
who draws portraits with chalk
on the sidewalk
begging, praying a picture of Christ
will get a buck
i should write about relationships
everybody duz
I feel like Leonard Cohen
God, i like Cohen's songs
Everybody Knows
but they don't
my monologues don't end
they go in their tunnels
and you can't hear the endless
jib-jab of words
dancing their caricatures
or picking bouquets
the thankfulness and the desires
and the fears
the conjunctions are everything
in a life
the ands
and/or the ors
some of this nonsense
is wisdom, you know?