intentional writers block

this is my medicine
my paper and pen
the keyboard and
screen

i sit here banging away
for a minute or
an hour
shuffling through songs
and buzzing along
with my coffee and
tea

most times
the words sporadically
flow and ebb
as my mind finds
the right groove
that taps into
it all

but sometimes
the page remains
blank
my head hung
heavy in my hands
my eyes are closed
i breathe deep
and sigh gently in
relief
as the music plays
on

i think
i like writing
those poems
the best

be it

don't let the beauty
you surround yourself with
soaring choruses
and city lights
pave the way for the
slow death of
the beauty
that's inside
you

we are all
distracted from
our greatness
in this life

destined to
make-do
as we torture ourselves
with endless
silent
what ifs
and
how comes

take off your mask
for a moment
let down your hair
strip down to
your skin
and step inside what
you see in
the mirror
reacquaint yourself
with the
truth
leave the fear behind
and love what
you see

and then be
it

...a mid-afternoon revolution of the poetic soul...

...saw a documentary on the Beats today - "The Source"...brought forth an entire flood of feelings and thoughts i haven't given the time of day to in a long time...i felt tapped-into a part of my being that was deeper than everyday living...dug up a few Kerouac discs to listen to and found myself closing my eyes and taking in his cadence and voice like i would a miles davis album...hearing it with older ears...an older mind...feeling a certain fire rekindled, if only for the day...we'll see...

...the impact Beat literature and living had on me is immeasurable, as is it's impact on American society and culture...i'm sad at how easily it got lost in the roaring maelstrom of life as i've gotten older...and yet, how fresh it still feels to me today, communing with the muse after letting ignorance glaze my mind over for years...creatively meditating while the scenery passes me by...

...and maybe that's it...after submersing myself in all things Beat during my impressionable and infamous collegiate years, i think i broke free for fear that i would wind up becoming some piss-poor mimic of the past without allowing the development of my own true voice...but it's been almost 10 years or more...and it seems as if i've strayed too far from my roots...

...looking back, i still hold the Allen Ginsberg poetry reading at CMU (4/8/94) as one of the highest moments of my life...and to meet him after the reading was as if i had died and was conversing with an angel on earth...holy hyperbole perhaps but here it is 14 years later - damn! - and it still rings as true in my mind as it did then...

...and it's bigger than just the Beats...goes well beyond Jack and Allen...it weaves in Bukowski...and Thompson...Hesse and Robbins and Wolfe...Fante and Camus...so many others that sit dusty on my shelves...writers, dreamers and celebrants of their own true voice...each one, living life with as much artistry as they displayed in their written craft...

...i'm gonna throw a few logs on the fire and see how long this burns...

Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac 3/12/22 - 10/21/69

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”