Wednesday, March 29, 2006


a pale grey fog twists around the tree limbs, tiny beads of moisture glint off of new green growth covering the damp ground. it is too early for birds, too early for the sound of car engines rumbling to life, dragging weary consumers to their killing jobs for another day. I sit here at this machine wondering, as always,

what's the point?

we must fight to drag any meaning at all from these dark ugly days, we must resist with the creative revolution of art. a typewriter and a sixty watt bulb and a glass of good red wine. it has to be enough.

I spent the night cleaning out my shelf of published work, organizing them, etc. you'd think I was Somebody, some kind of Writer. maybe one guy reads something and thinks, "fuck that guy, I can write better than this..." and the lineage continues, down from Dos to Hem, Fitz and Miller, Buk and Pound and Eliot and Cummings and Fante and Nietzsche and Anderson and T. Williams and Hamsun, down to me and McCreesh and j.barrett and LCBerriozabal and then, down thru the line and the light and the word and the way.

we'll see. for now, there is only the poem.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

poets and madmen

drinking cold coffee and fidgeting with these plastic lifeless keys. there is no fire here, but we shall see what comes of it. dispatches from the compound, howls from this animal life. words and lines like splinters, like broken glass on pale skin. the harmony of violence and wine. we will lay bare what truth we manage to uncover. we will paint the cave walls with fragile meaning. we will ramble thru the shadows laughing.

this is a brave new world and the shattered diamond lines we carve resist in quiet revolution.