Making Love to the History of 20th Century Literature as if
the History of 20th Century Literature Was a Beautiful Woman.
Today, instead of writing when I got home, I took a nap.
While I slept, I dreamt about the history of 20th century literature.
I dreamt the history of 20th century literature was a beautiful
woman,
and my writer’s voice was a penis was a British Loyalist
Soldier.
I eased my soldier-penis-voice into the history of 20th century
literature .
We made love like true lovers.
We made true love.
I ejaculated my words into the history of 20th century literature
.
She held me tightly and told me she loved me.
I held her tightly and told her I loved her, too.
My words went all over inside her.
She closed her eyes and smiled, feeling them.
I closed my eyes and soaked into her, smelling her, tasting her,
loving her.
I disintegrated into her.
With our minds we told each other we had made true love.
When A Poem Comes To Get You
-Hey there Grover Daddy, Calling Grover Daddy, come in please.
Over.
-Grover Daddy here Big Sugar. What's up? Over?
-I've got something bleeping over beta beta zenith. Any idea
what it could be? Over.
-Roger that. Sure it's not birds, Big Sugar? OVer
-Negative on the birds. It's Coming in too fast. Way too fast.
Christ. It's big, too. This is a REAL big thing. Advise please!
-Just Stay calm, Big Sugar. What are the specs? Over.
-I can't get any specs! My instruments are all over the friggin'
place. This things right over me. It's Goddam right over me!!!!
Oh, MOTHER OF GOD!!! IT"S EVERYWHERE!!!! IT"S EVERYWHERE!!!!!
WHAT IS IT??!!!! WHAT"S GOING ON!!!!???????
(Silence.)
When a poem comes to get you,
You can't run or dodge or hide.
There is simply no escaping,
They come from both out and inside.
When a poem comes to get you,
Give up vanity and pride.
There ain't no winning,
You'll be too busy spinning,
While realities collide.
Yes, when a poem comes to get you,
You can't plea, "not in this state."
It's just not right to try to fight
synchronicity and fate.
Yes, when a poem comes to get you,
It's like lava from the earth.
It's like birds and bees and air and trees,
And your own naked birth.
And things with wings that sing to you,
With your own mother's voice,
And pinnacles of mountain tops,
And caverns dark and moist,
And your unspeakable weaknesses,
And your unreachable strengths,
The girth the worth,
Your hunger, thirst…
Do I detect some angst?
Don't worry.
If you make peace with Life,
And each and every thing you've done,
I'm sure you'll see,
And we'll agree,
That poems can be fun.
And We lied.
You can hide.
You did once,
And we cried,
And we what'd and why'd
We thought maybe you'd died,
Inside.
But in the end we decide
'd that you didn't see the possibilities,
and simply hadn't tried.
Poem Fishing
It was night time.
I was on my way to the bus stop,
I'd been really stressed out that week,
And I was writing.
There were poems everywhere that night.
I didn't know which ones to write down.
I'd hook one,
And it would lead to another,
And another…
It was like they were spawning.
I felt so free.
That's when I saw it.
It started with one that got away.
Something about the highest part of me being God,
And how God's supposed to be perfect,
And how stupidly hard on myself I can be,
And how I usually think that's because
I'm trying to live up to the part of me that's God,
But maybe it's the part of me that's God that's being so hard
on me,
Which would mean God isn't perfect,
Which would explain a lot of things.
But then that poem got away,
And I reflected back to where it had come from,
And that's when I saw THE poem.
The poem that explains everything.
The poem that makes everything make sense.
I didn't get a very good look,
Just a flicker,
A shadow,
A swirl…
And it was gone.
But somehow,
In that moment,
I knew that it just swims around,
Through lonely bus shelters,
Bedrooms of people we have crushes on,
Discount shopping malls,
Hallways in high schools,
Front porches on sunny days,
Back seats of little cars that smell like cigarettes,
Awkward moments between new friends,
Rooms full of the fact that the telephone's not ringing…
It's always there,
Swimming around,
It's just we don't see it most of the time.
And what was I going to do, cast?
Catch it?
Pull it in?
Slice it up and serve it with lemon?
I'm going to need clearer eyes,
Better ears,
And a bigger heart,
To find that poem again.
And when I find it,
I think it will be the one
catching me.
Sometimes Writing A Poem Is Like
Sometimes writing a poem is like taking a shit.
You've got all this… shit inside you,
And it starts getting uncomfortable,
And you've got to get it out,
So you have a big shit,
And then you feel better,
You feel good.
You did a good thing,
A really good thing,
But the only evidence of your good thing,
Is a pile of your own shit.
Sometimes writing a poem is like compacting a car in one of those
car compactors.
You build up all this pressure.
Huge amounts of pressure.
And you compact everything together until you've got this…
thing.
And it's really dense,
But it's worth something.
Sometimes writing a poem is like a tornado.
It blows you off your feet,
And lifts you into the air,
In a whirling, swirling vortex
Of light and sound that unites you
With all consciousness in the bosom of the divine.
… but when it's all over,
you realize it was just a bunch of hot air.
And sometimes writing a poem is like giving birth.
Something that's always been inside you
Combines with something that came into you from outside,
To create something that is unique,
And a gift to both you and the world.
I wonder what kind of poem,
this is?
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