No ideas, but all the motivation.
All the reasons to do it yet no reason at all.
Like a marathon, hitting a wall.
Just spit it out,
Put it on the page! Put it on the Page!
Forget if it makes sense, forget the grammar and spell checks.
Fuck making sense.
Just put it on the page,
Gibberish or garbage is better than nothing.
Just put something on the page.
Reading a book alone in the Redwood Forrest
On the observational scale,
I do sit here in the redwoods in lotus pose,
with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
on a stack of logs next to me.
What is the catch?
Is that but the paranoid disillusionment
of the redneck hippies near by
just now learning that they aren’t the real rebels?
They are not heroes,
They can only dream of being such.
The true meaning of center,
of the power of human capability,
If only imagined,
that is all we are,
Then that is the best
and the worst
of our imaginations.
What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution?
PRODUCE!
Must produce content!
For fame,
For a following,
Quite literally and painfully so,
thanks to the stench of both words.
To produce is to manufacture,
To manufacture is to produce.
The workers are the ones who produce,
So the artists,
the writers,
the creators,
we are the workers to.
We are a part of that thing called revolution,
And we must forgive Marx for forgetting us.
Artists!
Artists of the world, unite!
We have nothing to lose but our chains,
We have everything to gain
when we gain the freedom to create!
Courage Is The Sweetest Lullaby
Fear not your lions,
And constrain yourself
upon the unsightly sounds
of this date of sorrow.
Do but construct,
And constrain,
For the winter’s winds are but lost
by the summer sun.
The nymphs of the seasons
do hold their treasons so,
Be not the character of
perpetual woe.
Rains do pitch upon this sight,
Wish yourself well,
Wish yourself sweet goodnight.
The Teacher As The Poet
Content’s production,
Ease of mind and constant rush,
Narcotic ease,
And still the voices don’t stop.
Stagnation is a creative mind’s enemy,
as is cowardice.
We are our words,
our letters and symbols.
Intentions mean nothing when they fail,
Yet success is still a subjective term.
I am responsible for the quiet dawn
of these minds,
if only for a day.
What world do we live in now?
What world was it before?
And what shall it be?
This is not a journal entry,
Poetry is public record,
And to be used,
On what was “just” another day.
Art in Our Times
Piss poor excuse for a joke,
All the un-ironic irony in real life.
I have always said it,
Life is a parody of the self,
We live in Chaplin’s Modern Times,
We are the machines,
And the proles.
We are wheels,
Turning and obedient to the driver,
Circle after circle,
Loop after loop.
Never changing,
Always moving,
Who are we, you, I?
Identity in these times,
Matches no other,
Identity in the past,
Must be laid to rest.
People are tired of cliches,
They need new ones,
New tropes,
New motifs,
New characters.
We,
The artists,
The writers,
The workers!
We must create something new.
We must not merely express our times,
We must change them.
What are the times we live in?
What will our era be called?
What can one do?
to help,
to change,
to move forward?
What can one do to stop the delay?
So that art,
and liberty,
can save us all.
Dull, now babbles some
wanna-be Socrates.
A Plato of the non-
existent preverbal page.
An awkward stammer
and pause gone about
with forced emotion.
So forced that it has no force,
no power,
gone and now at rest,
deserving non of its fake praise.
Lofty lust, and more incoherent
babbles and rambles in the name
of some forgotten crackpot
pipe dream.
Again this “philosopher” speaks,
and the actual teacher wretches in the corner,
excess is the key word
of the wanna-be Socrates.
