Tuesday, April 16, 2013
What is the real matter with you, I?
Back in "the old days" [about 2 months ago], you
would have reached for some book or another
for inspiration right about now, thick in sticky shit you
would prefer to turn into "poetry" or some kinship
with such. Now, you want to see how far you go
by yourself, don't you, I? How far away from what
it doesn't matter so much. Who do you want to satisfy, I?
Your projection of your introjection of the notion
of solipsism? Or what you find looking into your heart or
your heartlessness or the other infinite issues about HOW
WHAT affects this reader and THUS effects change
in that reader, what is the real matter with you, I?
Actually, I've run this entire thread into the ground.
Probably, mostly, anyway. But even right there, who
would I have written that to and why? I'm not quite writing
it to myself. Actually, you're writing it to the page
and you would like to make a pun [I won't call it "cheap," judge
"it"] that it has run aground. Okay, you've done that. Now.
You can write ANYTHING into the page [and frequently will].
I am the good one. I'm not a child. I've outlasted several of your/
OUR whiles. I needn't "write Poetry." I like to write. With you
and you and even those "Reader" and "reader" persons, per-
sonifications on their usual June-July-August vacations. "Don't worry
about me, Hoss! It's alright. Don't you worry about a thing, Steve."
I guess that "you" would like for me to get serious. About what,
my friend? The eight-year-old kid, his mother and sister and father.
The several hundred thousand innocent victims in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The carnage year after year. That misery and insanity has certainly seemed
to me to have multiplied in direct proportion with the redistribution of wealth.
I feel terribly sorry for all of those who cannot stop themselves. You "feel"
terribly sorry. Ummm, is that all? Is that, hmmm, ALL, "Writer" Guy?
Let me ask you a question: Is T.S.Eliot completely irrelevant TODAY
in the wake of yesterday's marathon in Boston where "some of the 'wealthy'"
have time to study him in depth, in the word wasteland of your feelings
for those who have nothing better to do than debate whether your writing
should address fewer current events or create more current events? Whippee-Shit!
You've roughly reiterated some on-going recurring ironies about
whether Mr. Gioia matters, the 8-year boy matters, the relatives in Iraq matter,
Mr. Boener matters, your own clichés of matters matter. And right about now,
let's see you throw in some current quasi-self-effacement like "Take me out
to the Ballgame! Batter up! Matter 0." In truth, you're just passing time
at your desk as you read a much better essay by Richard Eskow at Campaign
for America's Future reviewing a current event and [NOT dragging in] [NOT padding]
smartly overlaying his thread with stitches of Eliot that are neither
disingenuous nor overwrought, like two of your own most current issues.
In truth, you're just passing time. Honestly, I have NO problem with that,
but I'll capitalize the negativity, anyways. My my hey hey therapist
said I'd have tedious days like this, turning misplaced self-criticism
into a minor attention form until I let go of that craft I practice
all hours into the day job. All you do is complain about things.
Why don't you actually DO SOMETHING! And immediately I answer
the call, "but that's ALL 'poetry' is, a long history of 'complaints' about
itself." For Christ's sake, you would have been equally ineffectual
in your life if you had never written a single line or made a linebreak
attempt to resemble "poetic thought." And "therapy" IS NOT poetry.
Yeah, well poetry ain't therapy, either, Thank Fk-ing Gawd, dammit!
IT isn't physical therapy, either. Your back is so cramped from sitting
on your word hatcher that you can hardly walk straight or stand up for
yourself. No, Eliot hasn't got your back bone. He moved to London
for a career in banking. Miller wrote Pound a cover letter and resumé
outlining how writing makes money make poetry, but I have to theenk
it landed on Lloyd Blankfein's desk. You'll have to stop rhyming spine with whine.
Posted by Steve at 11:17 PM