In my blood like holy wine


‘I could drink a case of you

and still

I’d be on my feet’

 

The format makes me think, I wonder what Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski (heaven forbid), Virginia Woolf, Flannery O’Connor and my soft spot for a poet, Miss Anne Sexton would do when facing the page.

 

“I want a love that’s on the square

can’t seem to find somebody

someone to care

and I’m on

a lonely road

that leads to nowhere…”

 

The reason (there’s actually not just one) I love this song is for the — I don’t know what it’s called and am not sure where my musical terminology pocket dictionary is right now but it’s for this set of words that is not a chorus coz it’s just Etta singing to me now when Tuesday’s grow cold love for all my life to have and to hold — here it comes

 

oh yeah

I don’t want a Monday

Tuesday

or

Wednesday

or

Thursday

FRIDAY

or

SATURDAY

 

oh nothing

but SUNDAY

 

 

I want a Sunday

kind of love

 

it’s the way she sings it, how is that translated into everyday life when there are so few real poets left?

 

I ask, pathetically, or actually not pathetically at all I just wanted to see how that would feel to say that was how I felt because here’s what actually happened, I scoffed, laughed it off, as if, as if it were that easy. I’d take pathetic but I can’t. I’m Christopher Walken in Deer Hunter with a gun as a gambling device against the House, the house is life, and the House always wins.

 

it’s not that stark, not that dark, I wish my computer would over-compensate for my lack of capitalization, I wish the banking system and the fact that I cannot seem to get my ‘rate’ would stop killing me. Am I supposed to go down there to the trough of the impoverished, I can’t say I agree with Henry that I am broke and it feels great maybe because he was 26 and in Paris at the time and I have been through the stupidity too many times to find any hint of romanticism in the artist myth no more.

 

No more may not be anatomically correct, and did I mention I am writing this to the songs on some playlist and now we’ve moved onto Nirvana and take advantage while you hang me out to dry

 

And so then it becomes this kind of automatic writing where you try to make sense of the cosmos and if words are truly my currency it’s a good thing I am also a hooker because they ain’t putting anything on the table but immortality and I’m not sure I believe in that anyway but one thing I think is bullshit is

elitism

of pretty much any kind

 

so let me just say go fuck yourself

if your reasoning was fear

 

I am the most harmless person you ever will ever meet.

 

Until the end of the world when I expect my animal instincts and life experience will kick in and you’d be surprised the would-be suicides who grow a will to live when actually faced with death.

 

Excuse me, I had to skip that last song, I must have been giddy tongue in cheek for that when I added to whatever playlist I am listening to, I refuse to look.

 

Afraid by the Neighborhood brilliant song of the year

I guess I just realized

 

“If you leave me

then I’ll be afraid

of everything”

 

The turns are the thing and the instrumentation but I am not supposed to talk about that because it’s not a girl’s job to understand that, so I keep probably what I am actually best at to myself, ┬ábecause of when where and how I was raised. And that’s not an excuse, Tony Robbins, and it’s not really a sad thing, it’s just something that is always mine and there are at least 4 of those, things where I am insanely talented and no one knows it except a few people and there’s no way I would know how to make a living at it and that would ruin it anyway.

 

I wish I could be Thom Yorke singing “After the Goldrush” right now, he is inspired, I am in love with him but not in a physical way so it’s not what you think it’s not even his soul or spirit or any of that bullshit. “I was hoping it was a lie.” It’s akin to why I fall in love with the painter of something beautiful or terribly true and ugly, why the novels that spoke to me were those words I didn’t want to put down but then did, to savor the end, and I felt that those books were now a part of me. Do kids today even get to know what that means? To lay on your back in a faraway field in the sun (and the pain, unspoken, for now, that I have come to realize was perfect Greek tragedy except I was living it in the pastoral South) reading Hesse’s “Narcissus and Goldmund” while laying on my back, in the sun, with my dog and horse nearby.

 

Now all I want to do is be in an altered state. Am I that un-used up (as in “I want to be used up when I die” a clumsy paraphrase of Oscar Wilde or some such about how life is to be filled with the best energy you can put forth and I am so busy dealing with sheisters, assholes, users, false face society ‘friends’ and just surviving like a hooker day to day (and I respect prostitutes for dealing with what they do – -way more than sony executives and stoner actors who are basically full of shit, sorry seth but you’re a bone head and I only support you because of free speech) – everyone is a hypocrite or a liar or has given up.

 

That’s about it. Ask me when I am hungry in two days (sure, it’s all my fault, I don’t give a fuck what you think you know I am here to let you know in the safety of the lives you’ve made if you are judging me in any way or what I am about to say — but sure I should have been a lawyer, sure I should be psychic and not accept jobs that almost kill and sure I should have not have been tried to be destroyed by a few who you may never know but they did exist and they did try to destroy me and I know that is not my ‘fault’ regardless of what anyone thinks in the privacy of their own stink) which I will be. I am not getting a job this week. I have no money. I have to deal with institutions and they generally don’t value me on a level that is sustainable. I don’t really even want to be here except for a few people who are making it difficult for me to step away.

 

And until I am really hungry and back in that place of what the fuck skid row to live out the dream of poetry, well I can’t say I don’t want to fight the good fight.

 

First I offer love and compassion and a broad compass of acceptance.

Second I call your shit if you deserve it and it’s funny who the pussy-faced cowards are. ALWAYS the people in POWER

third, well we’ll see won’t we.

 

I welcome it if you try to kill me. You could make it quick, there’s no need for torture. I know nothing, have not been abducted by aliens and don’t believe time really exists so you could just cut to quick.

 

I don’t know why I am still here but I figure it must be important.

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5 thoughts on “In my blood like holy wine

  1. How can you say there are so few poets left? I say you are not looking hard enough. I’ve followed your blog because you’ve followed mine. (I always follow back it’s a sign of respect) That most of these people are blogging christmas songs is their own business. Follow “Button Poetry” on facebook and tell me these people aren’t slamming at nationals and busting their asses to compete. I’m not a performer. I would slam but I fuckin hate being scored. (Check my blog again if you don’t recall me by all accounts I’m a real published poet, screw a chapbook my first publication is 200 pages long and stirring) (need a poet to compare to Bukowski? I’m posting this shit drunk off my ass on christmas eve) There are flocks of misfits out there wishing they could write decent poetry and at least ten or twenty in the Twin Cities that would paste our shit to the wall and paint over it in beautiful prose. Start ordering chapbooks. Button Poetry is a start. There are tons of upcoming new poets out there that would ring us both out with the wash. Just because your reader sucks doesn’t mean everyone does. And you know what bukowski wrote some beautiful shit but anyone whose read more than a few of his books (personally I love him I’ve read nearly all of them) knows he can’t write on more than five or six topics. If you have no local poetry scene hit a slam a city over. You would be surprised at what the youth these days ( I’m 34 some of these up and comers are right out high school) have to say. I’ve been writing poetry since I was in the second grade and I can’t light a candle to these poets. All of my blog is strictly new work, and to be honest the only reason I even post online is so I can access my poetry for performances without dealing with my MAC not syncing with my Android. There re a ton of bad poets out there. There is also a stirring amount (at least in my neck of the woods) that make decades of my writing look like loose stool. And I consider myself a hell of a writer.

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    1. I don’t need anyone to ‘wring me out with the wash,’ if you must know. They can have it. I am not even going to try to compete with young poets and telling me how much better they are than me or you isn’t going to get me to read them. Youth culture wants anyone my age to get out of the way anyway so this was not something that would encourage someone who doesn’t have a place in the world anymore.

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      1. Your place in the world breathes, bleeds, feels, thinks and has retinas that retract. Nomad or no. At least for this life. You will always have a place that draws breath until you have nothing of coherence on this earth. Besides perhaps a hundred and ten or so pounds of raw meat and bones with no occupant

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