Sent a buddy a poem, draft form, but finished. Asked his opinion.
These sorts of writings are not my cup of tea, but then I never could get much into Alan Ginsberg, either.
Interesting maybe, but I just never was able to see the usefulness.
***
I took another look at the piece and I’ll just cut that whole part off.
Sucks, it was the ending. Crisp even.
Worry about self-censorship,
but if I hesitate and you can see it, too,
well, back burner it goes.
For now. Thank you.
***
Took another look at your note and got to musing at your comments.
I can get into some Ginsburg, certainly Howl.
Think I probably dislike all but one percent of poetry.
Just about finding somebody you like.
I appreciate the prose poets like Bukowski, James Dickey & Frank Stafford.
Springsteen and Dylan.
School ruined me for rhyme.
***
I am writing like this because it’s how I see the words.
the words arrive together.
That’s how I hear them.
And it’s a helluva lot of fun.
Not much choice really.
Spacing like this ***
because don’t know how to use computer.
***
Also, trying to remember my past, my life.
Can’t seem to recall in a linear sense
and haven’t yet figured out how to piece together a readable account.
True what they say about drugs and alcohol
and your memory.
***
Art doesn’t have to be useful.
But dawns on me the stuff has to be worth your time.
I get that. That makes sense.
To be honest, that was never a problem with me.
Jobs were a problem. Alarms were a problem. Bosses,
big problem.
***
Have no idea where I am going here.
But then I didn’t have any idea where I was going when I started.
Left without a map.
and here I am.