Everybodies working on the weekend

This is the worst feeling in the world. You’re day is going well, it’s 11:00 in the morning on a Friday, three hours to go until you clock out and start you’re weekend, your first two day weekend in a long while. Three hours until you swipe that time card and go home to grab that first Corona. Only three hours till freedom and the boss man says you have to work tomorrow. Of course, mandatory overtime is bullshit, you know it, they know you know it…. they can’t make you work, but they can make you wish you had of. So like a mindless sheep you think of the grief, you think of the obligation, and you also think about all the fat overtime pay to pay all those fat overdue bills. You swallow your pride and tell them that you’ll be there…. and you will be there, sick and tired from staying up to late drinking beer and blogging.

You clock out but your day does not get any better.
You have a paycheck in your pocket but it’s already spent.
The wife is mad at you for working the next day, it seems you get grief no matter which way you crumble.

Lucky for me there is good beer and a pack of smokes at my side, good thing I have this blog that someone, anyone may read. Good thing for magazine editors that find some sort of value in my meandering…. waiting for me at home was an email from the editor of Trespass Magazine accepting two of my poems for the upcoming issue.

Another weekend down the proverbial drain, but at least someone is out there reading, and understanding exactly what the hell I’m trying to say.

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Survival

It’s Saturday night in Polk County Florida, drinking, loafing and drinking beer. Lakeland is the backdrop, beer is a constant, but the loafing is not near enough….. but it is Saturday, and I am actually off work, and now I am loafing, on this blog with nothing much to say.

I’ve drank a few, done a little writing, and now sitting around thinking about poetry, or more precisely, poetry as survival tool.

I can’t compete with capitalism, or the way life is (which is capitalism), I can’t compete with the hardships, I can’t even compete with the poetry elite, but I can survive, with a pen in my hand or a keyboard in front of me, and I don’t even understand why this does the trick… to sit here and ramble on about nothing makes the world stop and all the worries go away. I can sit down and labor over a few lines, and money troubles stop, politics stop, my life stops and there is nothing but the words. I don’t have money and I don’t have success, but I have dreams in my pocket and poems in my heart.

It’s Saturday night, and the whole world has stopped.

Dispatch

Well, my fifty-one verse poem ‘When Dawn Comes Wish Me Forgotten’ is up in the new issue of Dispatch Litareview.

I’ve been sitting on this poem awhile now, waiting for the right moment to release it. For many reasons it is an important piece to me and now I send it off into the world like a nervous parent sending their child off to its first day of school.

I was always adamant that it be a chapbook. Once I made a few copies (literally), but soon realized I didn’t have the money or the resources to do a chapbbok release the correct way, the way I felt this poem deserved.

Last March I debuted the poem at my first spoken word show, and even though hardly anyone was there, it felt good. It was the dictionary definition of catharsis.

So thus far, this poem has been a secret joy of mine, a personal one. Now it’s out there for better for worse, and I hope you are kind.

I’m not the same person that wrote that anymore, but it is where I come from, and I do not believe I could be more honest if I tried.

Poetry is not dead, it’s resting!

Alot of people are saying that poetry is dead.

A look around here and would would likely think so, or turn on the t.v. to watch the news and see images of war, murder, rape, hate crimes, etc. In a world gone so mad it would seem poetry is indeed dead.

Ask people exactly what killed poetry and you’ll get a lot of different answers. Lack of interest? Lack of compassion? Mtv? People like me?

Duane Locke said the great destoyers of poetry were poetry editors and university professors. Could it be?

The fact is poetry is not dead, it is not dying, and probably will not for a long, long time. The sheer amount of people discussing poetry and it’s demise, writing poetry, blogging on poetry, is a testament to this.

I’m into quite a few beers now and I’m rambling…. but I’ll tell you why. I’ve been thinking alot today of my own life and my own writing and my obsession. I’ve realized what the death of poetry is to me, and it is none of the things mentioned above.

The death of poetry is inhibition.
Poetry is, of course, a tool of many different meaning. for many different people. Poetry like all written word is about communication. It is self expression. It is totally honest ugly or beautiful truth. Whatever you think, inhibition kills all.

I have become inhibited. You get published here and there, and you start to feel inhibition. You start to labor over every word, you worry if whatever you write is good enough. You start to think about silly things like self image, you start to fret and question over every single thing you write, from forum posts to what you write on a personal blog.

It’s a trap, and I wonder how many writers fall prey to this?

I don’t know, my point is from here on out I am back on track and writing for the pure personal joy of it. It may not always be good, but it will always be honest.
And I don’t care about public image. I don’t care what you think, I don’t care what other writers or editors think. Life is short, I don’t have time for bullshit.

Of course, I’m drunk…. I could wake up and delete this whole post with one click.

Spiritual Hangover

I’m not a negative person, really! I’m just finding myself in a funk lately, which is maybe why I started this blog in the first place.

It’s an outlook you get when you wake up on a Sunday morning and feel spiritually hungover. You’ve just got done working fifty some odd hours, just like you’ve done every week forever now, you’re feeling the effects of a twelve pack of the cheapest beer you could buy because your paycheck is alredy spent. You’re even out of coffee, so bleary eyed you slip on dirty boots and drive down to the corner store for a cup of java, the traffic is sparse because it’s early, people are sleeping or at church getting their weekly dose of God. The temperature is already in the eighties and the humidity is stifling yet the world seems nothing but cold. You know this day will slip away in weariness, ennui, and cat naps…. and tomorrow you will again waken before dawn and slip on steel toed boots and start the sickening process all over again.

A glimmer

A Glimmer
Always the hearbreak
driving downtown
past important people
in important cars
hustling here and there
like what they’re doing
really matters

I was
never made
for this

Broke and armed
with nothing
but poems in my heart
in desolate solitude
of dingy bars
or sad breakrooms
listening
to people clamor
about things
I’ll never
understand
like mortages
and sports pages

And across
unending asphalt
of American highways
and miles
of roaring
ocean
the class lines are drawn
and people more downtrodden
than I’ll ever be
go to bed
listening
to pangs of hunger
in their gut
and listening
to the clamor
of other important people
in important cars
forever alienated

While politicians
chatter on
about numbers
and statistics
but I’m not
a pie chart
I’m flesh
and tired bone

It’s grim
and they’re holding all the cards
with an ace
under the table

But don’t sing the blues America
Politicans
always have
politics
but dreamers
will always have dreams

And this dream
grows, illuminates
and explodes
splintering into
a thousand
desires

It doesn’t leave much
but it leaves
hope

That’s where I’ve been as of late, clinging to hope. I don’t have time for apathy anymore. There is a huge difference between surviving and living, and I haven’t been doing either extremely well.

There is always writing poetry, reading poetry, publishing, etc…. and I’m happy with all that, but waking up thinking about writing and going to bed thinking about writing means I’ve neglected a lot of other aspects of my life. It’s kept me in this factory, this town, this house.

Aimless Sunday

Enjoying a reprieve from the old factory in the form of a three day weekend. It’s a lazy Sunday as I split my time between the computer and laying on the couch.

Laying down with my eyes closed thinking of where I’ve been where I’m headed. At thirty-two I’ve a lot of years left, but I’ve burned quite a few too.

This is a cryptic post, oh well, all I can say is when you spend days in the factory and nights consumed with writing you start to question your sanity. I’ve had a lifelong obsession with laying down words with no time for anything else and I have to wonder if that is exactly why I am stuck in this factory life. I have dreams in my pocket and poems in my heart, but that doesn’t pay my bills.

But it’s Sunday
and all is alright in the universe
today

I layed down some pretty strong lines last night and I’ve added a few audio pieces over at my web site. Check it out.