08-10-2020, 11:11 PM
The season in hell is addictive. You want to see how deep you can bury yourself and triumphantly climb out, or better yet, proudly stay there without the burden of pride and onlookers. And there's The Path of the Moon, a few weeks of the intense introspective and waking day and nightmares, and hours of not knowing who you are, or who or what being a concept. But I've learned to find the Ariadne's thread sooner each time, and come right back, bringing everything with the hard and hanging bundles between my legs. You get a dream erection, like Freddy Krueger said. And I dream all the time. Even when time is being dismayed by the 'pataphysicist hacks. Me, I like to feel heavy. No floating with my opiates, me. I like to feel my testicles dragging the coarse earth. But when I try the Apollonian routine, I'm smothered in Daphne's silence. Now Matilda leads me through Purgatory in Ignorance.
Strange Lines to Matilda is a book of quiet resignation, but not quiet desperation. People tell me I can't write poems that are prose, and I do it. People say I can't write love poems among a heap of cliches and the objectification of women, and I do it. People say a beautiful young woman like that don't want to have anything to do with an unemployed hack like me, and I do it in a sock. And wear it. The quiet thing about it is Matilda herself. All my muses are silent. I do the singing for them. And they aren't impressed. More like, distressed.
But I sing, like H. M. says, a little out of tune perhaps. But there needs to be a music for the tonedead and the illiterate. Our children are too smug with all their intelligence. "Would you break my heart whilst the women watch, half hoping that I shall weaken? . . . Oh no, dear child, I could not bow to a machine; I am, after all, human. Let others open new doors to history . . . " R. Edson. In my house, we worship the Lord. The Psalms are a great source of poetic power. The Lord is the living self. The enemies are the internal enemies that distract from the self. The living vital self that is singing. Be it Waltzing Matilda or Tom Traubert's Blues or Hallelujah. Even if she doesn't really care for my music.
My harsh nostalgia and violent sentimentality aren't hipsterish; though if they come for me, I insist upon a vintage gallows, and a soft violin. I am the night, color me black despite all protests. I didn't create the blues, but I am it.
My muses are the glory of this world, not despite, but right along with this foul liminal year of our lord, 2020. . . .
Strange Lines to Matilda is a book of quiet resignation, but not quiet desperation. People tell me I can't write poems that are prose, and I do it. People say I can't write love poems among a heap of cliches and the objectification of women, and I do it. People say a beautiful young woman like that don't want to have anything to do with an unemployed hack like me, and I do it in a sock. And wear it. The quiet thing about it is Matilda herself. All my muses are silent. I do the singing for them. And they aren't impressed. More like, distressed.
But I sing, like H. M. says, a little out of tune perhaps. But there needs to be a music for the tonedead and the illiterate. Our children are too smug with all their intelligence. "Would you break my heart whilst the women watch, half hoping that I shall weaken? . . . Oh no, dear child, I could not bow to a machine; I am, after all, human. Let others open new doors to history . . . " R. Edson. In my house, we worship the Lord. The Psalms are a great source of poetic power. The Lord is the living self. The enemies are the internal enemies that distract from the self. The living vital self that is singing. Be it Waltzing Matilda or Tom Traubert's Blues or Hallelujah. Even if she doesn't really care for my music.
My harsh nostalgia and violent sentimentality aren't hipsterish; though if they come for me, I insist upon a vintage gallows, and a soft violin. I am the night, color me black despite all protests. I didn't create the blues, but I am it.
My muses are the glory of this world, not despite, but right along with this foul liminal year of our lord, 2020. . . .