Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Friday, February 12, 2010

JAKE spicer's hour and a half

this IS a poem, naw a story, based on Jack Spicer's idea that with poetry, you write a piece honestly, then look at it an hour and a half later and discard it. except i'm sharing it with the few of you who read this first instead. it's a summation of the last month or so in which i've been super creative and yet have not written much new poetry...

the past month has been sean's beer bottles placed sporadically about my apartment. too many cigarettes, not enough energy, little bohemia captured in booking tours and finishing projects. i have grappled with my loneliness, a feeling of isolation many do not understand, as i am constantly surrounded by love. but, see, i was in jail for 2 days a week. and that allowed for an individuated experience of introspection i didn't ask for. except when i did. sometimes i'm wearing a mask, and everyone knows who i am under it, so what's the fucking point of the mask? bunched blankets on a bed with no sheet, and painting walls is a daunting task in the midst of doing nothing and everything all at once. loves of my life come and go, always present and yet i have time to myself. i am my father's son, teetering between curmudgeon and socialite, no dichotomy ever enough to describe how i think or feel. i play music, read, basically DO whatever it IS that i want, and sometimes the proverbial diesel fuel in the proverbial tour van proverbially gels and money runs thin when your connections are intangible. we burn our cash; a show here, coffee there, and bourgeois professors threaten to call the cops as we earn a buck for a signature on a petition which means nothing at all to us. i have amazing sexual experiences no one can ever rid from my memory, while magical erasers in my cerebrum ex out all that work was. i wake to Cat Power most mornings, go over in my mind the pro's and con's to eating a healthy breakfast, shove medicine up my ass and in my mouth, shoot some emails into cyberfuckville, make a phone call or two and try getting as much shit done in a day as possible. yoga with beautiful women as the van freezes, embracing the choas of being. seatlle and kansas city are littered with emails right now. i don't see you enough. gary gives job tips and ends up in imperial, misery, with a stripper and a new xbox. a 22 year old with arthritis is hard to believe. but what if it spreads to my eyes, computer-screen-blues, upside down cityscapes and no shows in montana, kansas or idaho, yet. jesus is handing out cash prizes to the first 13 people who grab a free monster energy drink in soulard during the super bowl, and the saints really needed that, they didn't have a home game in all of 2005! out of the woodwork, gone to croatan. out of the woodwork, gone to croatan. sex with my soulmate and my penis isn't hard. now it is. i don't even know what europe looks like. the middle east is the moon right now, all craters and a few indeterminable life forms. drums and bass, a live sound. no value to shock. i have 27 zines and 4 cameras in my house, not sure how to use any of them! and leaving has never been harder than when i decided to do it myself. can we turn foreclosed houses into fuel? why don't i just steal more bubble bath, i hate beard hairs. cinderblock candles and dvd urns. if they are really watching my every move, they're bored as shit by now. we need to do what we can now, 2011 is coming. but seriously, cut the shit. let's live and let live. a finger in my ass and now i feel free. it's all real. i never wanted to hurt anyone, so i didn't. green IS the color of dead white men. burn your cash. green IS the color of dead white men. burn your cash. if i told you all my desires, would you laugh in my face? creativity has no adulation. all this energy and we get nowhere. all this writing and i'll still always and never be done...

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