Found Poetry

Found poetry on a bathroom wall:

“I wanted only to try and live in accord with the promptings

which came from my true self.

Why was that so difficult?”

Because Jesus hates you!

Found Poetry

What Mannion Said!

La PlumaHere.

Fucking manuscript.

And damn Mannion’s eyes for calling me out.

It languishes, the manuscript, orphaned in the corner. It’s gaze is all glowering guilt. I haven’t written a word in two months. Too much has happened. Too much good, too many surprises. Staring down at the pile of printed paper I see blue and red ink stains, editorial recisions, suggestions and I think how far I’ve come from this time last year.

And that was after all the cute tweets about my zombie-filled dreams (there must be a message in this metaphor) I composed to waste time, or the Facebook updates, like this one: “Sean Paul advises against taking Frost’s Road Less Traveled this morning. Usually it’s quite nice, flower-lined and empty, but right now it’s full of petite bourgeois with fanny-packs and guidebooks.” Chuckle, chuckle. And yes, sometimes I write about myself in the third person. Sue me.

Damn Mannion and his “impulse of psycho-spiritual atavism.”

And damn Mannion, most of all, for reminding me that I need to write. And it’s a compelling need, forceful, and, well, damning.

But the white screen of death is too fucking daunting today. And the memories too painful, painful remembering and reliving that frightfully lonely spring in Istanbul and the equally frightfully beautiful light and the view across the Golden Horn. It wasn’t all bad. As a matter of fact, it was easy. And amazing. Glorious. The right place at the right time. And yet Mannion reminds me of all the B-52 carpet bombs of anger and anti-personnel guilt-mine emails slung back and forth between my father and I that spring. And the simple anguish of just being alone, the powerful hunger for a woman’s caress, a knowing smile, the smell of long hair, the electric touch of fingers joined together in silence, eyes lit up by the moon and cheeks rosy on the wind. Damn Mannion for forcing me to write such loathsome purple prose, and for reminding me of all of that and how it needs to be written down, remembered, acknowledged and owned.

In moments like this I fear the book will never be complete, that the re-write will remain nothing but potential, all glowering guilt.

Damn Mannion for dragooning me out of my comfortable complacency, as well. Too much easy living and not enough reflection.

And like Mannion this morning it’s raining and I’ve nothing better to do than surf the web, waste time, watching a thousand little gloaming droplets of rain occlude the sun and reduce my mood to little more sniveling gibberish.

Alas, I’m grateful to Mannion for providing some inspiration. At least I wrote this.

Another Casualty

Another Casualty

cat got run over
now silver screw holding together a broken
right leg
bound in bright red

got cat home from vet’s
took my eye off
him for
a moment

he ran across floor
dragging his red
chasing the female

worst thing the
fucker could

he’s in the penalty
sweating it

he’s just like the
rest of

he has these large
yellow eyes

only wanting to
live the

~by Charles Bukowski