“More than intending, the poet attends!” -Dean Young
How do you bend the mind to change it? Expand it, step inside of it, push out the repetitive, the ruminative, the dead-end future-pursuing want-to-be problem solving Effort-For-Nothing?
Not a Dominatrix
But a pigeon-holing
piece of No-Peace-Giving
I think you have to embrace It.
“Attends to the conspiracy of words as it reveals itself as a poem, to its murmurs of radiant content that may be encouraged to shout, to its muffled musics there to be discovered and conducted” -DY
There’s something violent in me. Something that wants love and hates ignorant impotency, the cat-calling cacophony surrounding innocence, purity, relief, Genuine-Being.
When does It Break-Free?
The Violent Innocence,
Robbed of Naivety.
I still love the smell of wetness clinging to growing leaves on sad trees, seeing us abuse and violate and obliviate ourselves as if nothing was ever real or worth anything.
Innocence can be a mean,
Innocence is wiser than the wide mouth of a mentally ill world devouring the Real, vomiting Treachery.
Innocence is something the world and I have tried to suffocate in me but it is there
and It Is.
I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I’ll autograph anything you’ve got!
“Sure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a picture of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.
“Thanks very much, Mr. Chinasky!”
So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.
I took my bottle out of some guy’s mouth. “Look mother, that’s the 2nd hit you’ve taken. I’ve got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don’t touch that bottle again.”
I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.
“Would you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.
“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked him.
“No, no, I’m serious. Would you advice writing as a career?”
“Writing chooses you, you don’t choose it.”
” … Love is a piano dropped out of a four story window and you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time …” -Ani
The irony of backing up is I don’t know what’s behind me.
The irony of backing up…
A blind backing out of safety.
These comforting cold monoliths
are limiting my vision.
”You were three hundred sixty degrees—I depended on you for a lot of things”
I can’t believe you allowed yourself to know, that you found such strength, without me, to grow,
With my back against these self made walls, I’m bottomlessly grateful.
There was a place you went with her
that I didn’t understand-
a place where the line was drawn
clearly in the sand.
We went from a place where I was sure you would die under my “protection”
We went from a place where I felt unseen, beaten, misplaced, taken for granted—manipulated, hated, used, just stuck
that feeling that someone will make it better when you’re stuck—
that feeling that someone New doesn’t get to give a fuck about the hours you pull, the things you see, the loneliness at night when there’s no one to be.
who do you become
Among the dead growth?
Among the Dead Growth?.
You, curled up, a beautiful blob of man
Your broad shoulders so heavy,
Your narrow waist, so soft
the marrow of Your wrists so strong
You baffle me.
So sweet. Too kind, too knowing, too ready.