The Left Column

Politics for Poets

Thinking things through

When you have the capacity to say a lot, most of which is just ramblings of mind, it's important to choose what is to put forward verse what gets held back. One worries that the mind fart thought, which is like a trainset of a child, just lay out some random track, sometimes the track doesn't connect and you can't just twist it to make it do that. Writing is like that too. If it doesn't connect it is an idea that doesn't get put into the bigger part of it. But just like a lot of things it is hard to throw away designs. It is hard to say, hey, I built this trainset thing of a story blot blog sporting of mind (like exercise) and it makes no sense at all. It doesn't belong anywhere. Hang it here, off to the side, in this methaphorical big red barn of a blog and let it swing in the wind of human criticism. "What does this guy know about Art and Web-pages?" , or "He's got a lot of nerve pretending to think like that." Critics are harsh. Even if they are only in the writer's mind.

So the writer moves along. And then someone gets him in a corner. They grab him. It'd technically be assault if you were fussy like that, if you wanted to play it that way, but then they'd take you out back and slap you around even more because the lawyer you got is already on their salery. They tell you that. He's named after his hair. It's a color. Don't call him that or he'll maybe flip out. Don't get too familiar with this one. So he tells you "What are ya doing, boubbie, spreading hate-blog like it's garden mulsch? No one wants to read about emblems of hate and hate deed ideas (that you'd be too pussy to do in the first place, so everyone wants to know how you come off as being guy, or said group of guys, who think you can pull it off like you blat about in your blog.) The hitman looks at you with a quizical look. He cocks his head to the side. You see him walking away. You go home and delete the hateful parts of your blog. It'd make a more scarey story, maybe, the blogger (it isn't really you, reader) imagines that the hitman (who wasn't even a hitman) takes his finger and shots it like people do and say "bang". But the guy wasn't a hitman. Just someone who thought that hateblogging ought to be culturally shunned. Just someone who found out who this guy was (it wasn't me, dear readers). Hate blogging is wrong and everybody knows it so don't do it.

I think I've blogged enough today.

Life goes on.

~ OK Now.

July 9, 2011

The Susquahanna River, Pennsylvania from
last fall.

When Poems Lack
   When poems
  lack their heartbrake
     hand brake the bycycle
  flipping over the garden rake
    flinging off the acustic guitar
   that is getting run over by a car
     while you view that far-away star
 and dream about a golden bar.