file 313

An arid, monochromatic winter, unleavened by any sense of crisp or clean

Is what I’m talking about

Be a good reader of books and of times;
have scansion; be honest.
And if you must misbehave,
don’t kid yourself

Is also
What I’m
talking about

The important thing to note about here
and other places like it elsewhere on this
goddamned fucking
Internet

Is that
it is for me and
it is for you,
whoever and wherever and

whenever
and (oh) whatever
you
or I

might
be.

salted wounds
salted wombs

salted earth
salted hearth

On its face, American culture has
been so mean
so base and
so violently idiotic
for so long

That catatonia,
ambivalence,
wanting to hide,
clam up and get wasted

Are all understandable
reactions

And I will tell you today
that I feel that I have
heretofore made out of failure

an art form, a paralytic-minimalist performance methodology
of kicking back into slack
perfected by rabid monks, sung by the decadent
foaming mouths of deaf-mute tone-poets

[I used to play guitar and sing. the day I stopped was the day
I discovered that what I was doing absolutely sucked
more than it
absolutely didn’t]

I'll tell you that a sad realization to have on a Friday afternoon is that you’ll pretty much have to
stop drinking if you’re ever going to accomplish much;
drinkin is a writer’s worst enemy, son. And best friend. And worst enemy. And also
a great friend.

[well, the Friday afternoon before an ice fishing trip is not
the time to take this particular horse of ambition by its reins
but I will be driving tomorrow

so that means I’ll be mainly straight]