why am i writing poetry? why is anyone writing poetry anymore? well that there’s a good question, isn’t it? why does anyone ever indulge in such a waste of time? merely to pass the time and indulge in self-indulgent feelings where one is continuously simply thinking about thinking. an exercise in mental masturbation.
poetry’s been reduced to plain pop and simple rap about bitches and ho’s or loves that just can’t be. or maybe you hate your parents? poetry and lyrics murdered by lip-synchers, dancers, and fake mc’s, or by some angst driven suburbanite that needs you to feel his pain, or the drunk little white boys that fantasize about being as cool as the rappers while playing their guitar and their three chords.
poetry murdered and retreated underground to slams and open mic’s. and what happened to the poets? very few practice the magic or the witchcraft anymore, and only those that write poetry go to listen and/or read poetry.
just trying to have a place to talk, have their voices heard, and
is poetry now just everyone’s inner noise and static? poetry’s been many things – sorcerers and spells, the tribe calling for rain, the church and ceremony, all calling higher powers and higher beings, prayer and
poetry’s been a song and a political
so why am i writing poetry? and who the fuck cares? nobody cares.
the truth is sometimes i wonder if even i care, and not just about this here poetry, but about everything, and when you get down to it, i don’t think anyone really cares because when you get down to it, no one’s really committed themselves to this place here, earth, because everyone is well aware of the fact that one day they will die.
nobody cares and don’t confuse yourself by telling yourself that, “oh wait because i do care.” no you don’t. nobody cares. would you die for this earth or this life? no, why would you? maybe you would fight for your shit, but you wouldn’t die for it. why would you die for it? what would be the point then?
or maybe you’d like to think that you’d die for future generations, but that wouldn’t be dying for something, it’d be sacrificing yourself. oh, how noble of you; comparing yourself to a martyr, and you haven’t even died yet.
nobody cares and don’t get it twisted, ya heard. one day it will all make sense like a taoist dream or a yaqui exercise and you’ll experience
but sometimes confusion leads to anger and one climbs mountaintops to yell like zarathustra; “fuck da police,” or “fuck you i won’t do what you tell me,” or “hasta la victoria” because everyone’s allowed to throw a
the world can eat you up, lead you into dark corners, and scare you into hiding. people can make you afraid. the whole world can be frightening because everything looks black with shades of gray. everything will seem so small like the walls caving in or too grand to grasp until you feel yourself under vertigo. chest beating hard and difficulties in breathing-
rants, chants, and incantations.
tantrums, panic attacks, and easy breathing.
why am i writing poetry? because i can’t sing or because i’m not a rapper. maybe, i just like e.e. cummings and typing way too much. maybe, i was bored. maybe, this is just what the fuck i wanted to do.
remember, the number sixan d the number 75 and that 75 plus six equals 81. because eight plus one is nine.
with all this having been said…
chicago, short e.
fuck explanations. just read; poetry bleeding from out of our shared history; from witchcraft and spells, to legends and songs, recording history through poetry, poetic ethnography; from speaking to god, to just remembering, playing innocently in the garden and speaking to moths. some write to write, write to share, write out of necessity, write to find, or lose their mind. enter the universe’s spine- easy breathing. call out to the god’s- incantations. world is just too small- panic attacks. never get mine’s- tantrums. sing along magic spells- chants. just need to talk- rants. fuck explanations. no one reads poetry. no one reads anymore. this isn’t for no one or anyone. just me for me. fuck explanations and fuck you – the reader. 12.02.02. short e.