Oso Para Vos

Okay, I have earlier expressed that I do not believe in “writer’s block” … only discipline. Well, fuck me! I do not know if it is the AIDS-virus in my brain for twenty-plus years, or if it is the fact that there is soooo much interesting going on in the media every day but which changes by the minute and therefore is impossible to write about in a novel … but, the now-overdue next novel is still awaiting — like all good and faithful lovers (lol … hmmm). Poetry is just not enough in itself (for me). I need to write a beefy novel every now and then. The “human condition” – which I love to write about – is a huge question mark right now. Perhaps THAT is the theme of my next novel?

I dunno … In the meantime (while I prepare a shot of Tequila and huevos rancheros) here is a re-blog from the archives – about writing:

The Dissident Android.

From nine-to-five I am an android,
programmed for industry and monotony.
I struggle to restrain myself against
deviation during those hours,
knowing that to live each moment
as if it were the first and the last
would surely subvert the machinations
of this music without silences.
Inevitably, as the noise of repetition
soars to a deafening climax,
my tortured soul emits a
violent scream of protestation
and breaks down in tears
of mourning over ransomed
moments of creativity.
It is not without desperation
that I await the sunset of sobriety,
and capture youth and illusion
in poetic refrain.

Writer’s Blues.

Seated in a quiet corner in his favorite restaurant,
the barren-minded writer waits patiently
for a seizure of etymological inspiration.
It’s been days since he has eaten and
perhaps longer since he has really slept,
for the agony of non expression is a
leech upon his every desire.
Unmoved by the sophistication of the truckers,
or the beauty of the waitresses and prostitutes;
and so untouched by the artistic vibrance
of the orange and red interior,
the turquoise diner seats, and the
Choking Victim posters adorning the walls,
the writer assimilates in undisturbed silence —
night after night —
until even he no longer hears the
occasional regular who leans close
to another, then points and says:
“You see that guy over there in the corner?
… He’s a writer!”

The Death of Poetry.

Fifteen years ago —
when poetry was still popular —
my creative writing teacher preached that,
while history repeated itself by nature,
a good poet never does.
Frowning particularly upon
‘that ever-stuttering Gertrude Stein’
and assailing the Beats as opportunists
in an age of trend, he warned
that the death of poetry
was approaching and that its demise
would precipitate intellectual senility.
The spunky old man lives in a rest home now,
and barely recognizes me when I visit.
Yet, nothing can tarnish the love I feel
as he excitedly engages me with the same
damn stories I’ve heard for fifteen years,
over … and over … again.

Rhythm and Tears.

The rhythmic atonalites
of steely, staccato tears
pelt graying pigmentation
almost senseless.
But the romance of flesh
frozen emotionless by
half-dried ablutions is
the poetry of endings
muting into beginnings.

crumpled paper.

crumpled paper.
edges blood-stained
from paper cuts —
ridges of emotion
desperately trying to
conceal the words
of love that were
never meant to be
written for all posterity;
but merely muttered under
my breath in a moment
of mindless passion.

(All poetry from my book “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.
Photography and painting by Adam Donaldson Powell.)