Henry Miller went hungry a lot in Paris but he fed enough blood to his bitte to summon command performances on a regular basis you can't gain an advantage by lining up in the neutral zone show me something I haven't seen like Tilda Swinton's tit flashed in a movie I can't remember the name of but it was good (partially because of that) what if everyone woke up at the same time? (think of all the pancakes that would have to be made) try not to get too high or too low as they are both impostors impermanent states of mind that come and go come and go like the shifting breeze the middle path slow and steady as she goes ( occasional detours into the gutter allowed) that's the ticket
1. You think that you've written down the thoughts that were lonelier than all the thoughts that were written down before you or after you but you are wrong
2. I'm reading some poems by Jewel (don't smirk--she's "intriguing") I am told I'm adored by millions but no one calls and one can only think then... what chance have I?
3. Poets never say what they mean they just expect you to figure it out
4. Maybe that's why you're alone (even in a crowd) as they've all given up on trying to figure you out
5. Opaque isn't that intriguing to those who are searching for the light
6. James Wright always told you what his poem was about right up front in the title... he shared that trait with Degas who would do a painting of a dancer in front of a window and name it "Dancer In Front Of A Window"
7. While I sit lonely by a fountain where naked cherubs are pissing away my dreams knowing that collaborationists stalk their own shadows while pigeons goose-step through the square-- but none can tell you whether ghosts sit up and listen to the footsteps that echo through an empty museum
8. And maybe if you search and search you can find another poet who has described the human condition as full frontal lonely but I'd like to think that one is all my own 9. And I am alone as you are alone as we are alone imprisoned within these shells straining to touch palms through the glass
10. ...I have my books and my poetry to protect me... what I did what I didn't truly of no import now after falter before correction the man who seeks to make connection finds the days of infinite possibility have flown but only because a world turned deaf and blind has deemed it so the ego in its fatal attraction to the body must always lose . 11. There now no more whimpering face it like The Man monolithic in his solitude as all mill about like ants resigned to his fate to go out in a blaze of glory lighting up the desert sky on a Saturday night on a spinning blue pelota somewhere lost in space
I like women who write like men and men who write like women somewhere in the middle they meet in a smoky androgynous haze where they size (and feel) each other up coming at long last to their defining moment with no compulsion for going under the knife
