Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Pierwalker Log: March 19, 2019

Writing start: 10:38 A.M.
Finish: 3:07 P.M.
Total new words (est.): 0
Edited (est.): 10300 + 6 poems

1. Failure: Off

2. Book Three Melody: Read-through chapter fourteen

3. Fractalverse V5: Stage two edit of the second set of six poems

4. Rapscallion: Off

5. Angel: Book Three: Off

6. T-Bag: Primary edit number five of chapter four
Notes: I'm excited to post this tomorrow!

7. Rumpel: Read-through of chapter two
Notes: I get to start a new chapter tomorrow!

8. Random Chance: off till next Monday

Special Projects:  Transcribing Montaigne: day 2 of 3

Extra notes: I have a new poetry volume coming in about three weeks. I'm excited to release it. My poetry is evolving. There are a few gems in there, several of which I've already shared here on the blog.

Somewhere in storage up in Bandon is a white binder full of poems that I began clear back in the 80s, which is probably before many of you were even born. I want to locate it and go through those works and perhaps update them, or even release the best of them in a single volume.

My poems usually range from three to seven stanzas; very rarely are they shorter than that; and a few are longer. In general, they fall in theme in only a few categories: protest, reflection, and praise. I rarely attempt to rhyme; I'm not a fan in general of rhyming, even with celebrated masters. It takes me out of the poem on a search for the rhyming word, as well as trying to keep up with the meter. Blah. Free-verse poetry feels much better when I read it. There is no attempt to impress the reader with rhyme and meter; there is just the thought or thoughts, the colors and emotions, the flow of the language, the interplay of ideas and words ...

I started writing poetry just before my mother died of a very horrible long-term disease. That was thirty-five years ago. I thought that after her death, I might stop. But I never did.

I don't write love poems. I don't flower up my prose. I don't try to impress. Poetry is my soul attempting to speak via an inferior means in order to heal me. The inferior means is the English language--or perhaps any spoken language. The healing is sometimes pleasant, sometimes ecstatic, but many times is painful or full of rage. I hold nothing back.

Poetry, of course, does not sell; and nine-tenths of those who claim to love poetry rarely if ever in fact read it. Neither of those considerations concern me. I put those poems out into the world, and, like my stories, they are there for those willing to do me the honor of paying me for them. If no one ever does, I try not to feel badly about it, for I live in an entirely insane culture that values grotesque people and philosophies and institutions, and there is nothing I can do about that. I--a rare member of the sane ones running scattered and alone in this cesspool.

And yes: that is how I see myself; and it is how I view human society. I once thought it a harsh stance, and perhaps unfair; but no longer. Not when billions of people are willing to destroy life on Earth so that they can live in a bigger McCastle, or make their lives entirely plastic physically, mentally, and spiritually (the Ten Easy Steps approach to life), when billions value consumption above all else and when billions adhere to authoritarianism and bigotry, as is the case today. Few are willing to stand up and shout, "Oh, fuck no!" A lot of my poetry centers on this grotesquery. A world careening towards self-destruction, willfully by most, is not a sane world. Is it any wonder that I continually find myself shouting from the wilderness, one that's being eviscerated and consumed into a vast, gray landfill on a baked and lifeless planet?

I've gone after specific people in some of my poetry: former girlfriends and so-called friends, coaches and teachers; and it's likely I'll go after them again. Some scars never heal. I'm a big fan of forgiveness; but like trust, it must be earned, and nobody from my past has bothered trying. And so my spirit cries out, and I often find myself compelled to write it down. Those assholes can sue me if they get all bent out of shape; I'm utterly penniless, and they'll get nothing out of me--except perhaps more poetry.

My goal is to be as true to those cries as I can possibly be. It isn't to attract readers.

I'm about to begin the deep edits on a new series titled Conversations With God. These are extemporaneous free-verse poems I published right here on this blog. Like all my other poetry volumes, I am reflecting, protesting, or praising--as in praying. No, not, "O Dear Lord, blah blah blah ..." Prayer can be much, much deeper than that, and more complex, and, frankly, more beautiful. A lot of prayer involves slamming fists into counters and flipping off the world, or driving, or masturbating, or eating. Some of it involves meditating; some of it involves taking a shit. You can be offended by that, or you can grow up a little. It's your choice.

In a world where many people cry "TL;DR!" at 280-character tweets, those of you who have made it this far should be commended. If you yourself write poetry, I would be interested in reading it--especially if it falls into the themes mine usually does.

Have a good evening.