on another morning
i started reading henry miller again
miller is all right
most of the time i enjoy him
but when he tries
to get philosophical
i tend to get turned off
but no matter what, i’m always in awe
of how it poured out of him
the words
the way they streamed
they said that he could sit at his typer
and hold a conversation with someone
while pounding out words
i get angry at the cats if they come in the room
and meow
while i’m trying to be a “genius”
miller did it all right
so did proust, locked away in his cork-lined room
he was sick most of the time
but still able to fill pages and pages
of the most literary madness
i can’t do it like them
most writers can’t do it like them
we stare at the snow and hope the power goes out
we go online and read the sports or look at porn
we don’t pour out our souls
the way that miller and proust did
we give it away in emails
or on social networking sites
like them or not, the prowess of henry miller
and marcel proust is something to behold
they had the majesty of the word
and the gods smiled down on them
me? i’m just waiting on eight o’clock this morning
so i can shut this operation down
be done with playing writer today
go outside in the driving wind and snow
accept my fate with humanity and the job
on another morning, i’d probably feel different
i’d feel like zeus
but on this one
i just don’t feel like i have it anymore
bench me or force me to retire
because i don’t have it to give
tapped
bankrupt
devoid of meaning
and i just can’t stop this poem
so this’ll be the last line
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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2 comments:
<< i can’t do it like them >>
Um... I think you can... It certainly pours out of you
wish i could say something here
wish it so easy for me
but, thx for not letting me
cause my smile say enough for me
guess..
and the gods smiled down on me
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