May 16, 2011

Sounds Like Bob Dylan

Ginsberg called poetry an impulse
Absolute truth is color among black and white
Dropping a hint that will not be understood
For 100 or 200 years
Calling yourself a prophet isn’t always profitable
Otherwise a loser, unemployed, sitting among a heap of spent cigarettes
Who are we? Who had something
If anything was lost
Hidden amid delusions of grammar
And spellcheck
Tributes to the lives of insignificant people
Are apparently not poetry

I get my mouth open
Out fly fists
Stir the crowd
Who cheer "Go man go"
For lack of anything better to say
Despite a need to say something

It’s funny how we create suspense
In matters which we already know who wins
And how we share in the joys of victory
Or the sobs and dejection of loss
Who are we?
Creatures who feel everything
Or want to feel everything

Poetry is an impulse
Natural and alive
Within, without
Understanding
Your voice, your reason
Belonging to all

Imperfections of a Mortal

I agee. Ginsberg is part of the beat movement right?

hi, phantom.

May 17, 2011

I’m so glad I get to read your work.

on the b

May 18, 2011

I like ur last verse;)

Paper Cut Scenario

i like sharing this world with you.

elusive star

It has been a while since I’ve commented. This poem reminded me of how talented you are as a writer. Crafting words together into these things called poems is no easy feat; but my friend, you have quite the ability to do just that.

hey man, this is jon and i just thought i’d give you a shout about my new diary if you would like to read.