The Left Column

Politics for Poets

Wake up!

I think I've blogged enough today.

Life goes on.

April 19, 2012

~ OK Now.

   "I remember back in '67
     before I really had achieved consiousness
    and the sound of the rain
  used to make me fall into a very deep slumber
  It took a toll on me and made me mad to be so
     blue about it all and 
   me being such a fussy guy with
  fussy guy problems and given over to
      rage, 
  like you didn't think it was funny
     to imagine it being so imagined and
     getting all worked up about it
   you win."
he blathered on and on.
  "I'll just keep on going. I've
    got it all running on." he continue
                                   blathers.

  The sky and the wind do not pause to listen.
    They keep about what they are doing 
            without any respect to 
                   his fears and his hangups
  and the things that he just gets 
                           completely wrong
  that he can't explain away, 
   the rages of his many seas and oceans of
      fallacy that pile up flotsom on his
    shorelines of false assumptions.
   The yesterdays were Octobers, all of them,
    and yellow with their fear
    and blue with their temporary relevence
  and green with their need for constant
                      affectated presence:
                     To be there with them
   and lov them like the fools that 
                               they are,
      in a way that respects and augments
           their soul-growth, where ever that
      vine happens to grow prepared for the
         great paths!
    But it often devolves 
    into constant neighsaying.
     he goes on with this,
    she goes on with that,
   noone feels at peace
      with what is being made real
    by the ones who make it real.
      Make it real.
       Then there is that
   slapping me upside the head of the obvious
 While I'm all overwhelmed 
           within a Pascal dementia
 starving myself of love and life
 eating all the sadness
  like it is manna, you
 take a piece of that, 
          rip off a part of that . . .
   trim this vine,
       pull that weed.

  She is scowling at the duck, 
                       trying to tell it
 to stop squacking squacking squacking.
  But it won't. So
     she washes all of 
            the dirty dishes in her sink
   then she scrubs down the tiles 
               in the hall 
            along the wall where
    the buffet table rests beside that
   French doored cabinet
    old Hondoran mahogany.
 
  What the artist knows
   he isn't going to say he knows
  he knows better than to claim to know
  but then, as the beer takes over
    he forgets to know 
           to know not to know
   and starts to think 
            that he knows 
  that people don't know
  what they think that they know oh
      no no no ya don't,
  and all like that, the thoughts
   just turning into hypnotic sounds
 and presented as if it's 
          somekind of 
       philosophy of life
  which it isn't
 and telling you about the heart.
 but it doesn't know anything about it.
 and presenting bad behaviour
     as  if it is funny when it isn't.

  He fails in his  unknowing to know
     what it is that he doesn't know.
  He fails in his not learning
  to know what to learn to not learn,
                 and what
   to learn to earn
    and how to learn to live
      and be from the bay to the bridge
 to the edge of the sky
      where the Winter is banished
  because he's that kind of guy, stuff
   that makes no sense if you need it to
    but doesn't have to be so clear
     as to leave you wondering what side
     of it you are fastened to.

  The poet never claimed to know
      what all of his words could 
               seem to mean to anyone,
   how could he know that?
     That poet doesn't even need to know
     what these words mean now? 
       Hope nothing mean.
           I miss you.