Writings from November of 2007 to April of 2009, or maybe the middle of 2010. |
3-29-08 I'm good at math but slightly unorganized and these are poetry's last days; the words are lost and confused and can't pull themselves together to know where to turn. I gave up fighting them but I can't lead them... there's just too many of them! And asking for help is like asking a homeless man for a quarter and then stealing his shopping cart so I can go on a spree where I jack up every word in the language hostage-style and my notebook is the base camp of simple equations that don't make sense. I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm good at music but I can't play two notes together to sound good and these are poetry's last days; stuck in a nursing home and not remembering my name or my face but knowing I held the pen. The art seems startled when I want to begin. And yes, the art falls apart when I commence. I could love you if you remembered my name. I could love you if it ever felt like being the same again. I'm not so good with science and my timing's always suspect. These are poetry's last days if I'm to be the suburban Indiana Jones, looking for my Ms. Pac-Man who gobbles my words to press on and acts like the ghosts are not around. The ghosts are not around. The ghosts are not around but my words, they fall to the ground. They miss the ears and do not make a sound. Biology and chemistry- they don't seem to accompany me. So take these words and calculate or overanalyze and simulate something that you can interpretate. Just so you can relate. Just so you can relate. Just please, I want to hear your take. Just please, I want you to relate. I could love you just the same. I could love you, just insane. I could love you... big believer in nothing, big believer in too much there... big believer in nothing. I could love you just the same but I won't. No I can't. No you won't. You won't last. I'm good with words but perilously ironic and these are poetry's last days if I have anything to say about it. But I'm afraid I don't. |