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I'm writing today, but frankly I don't know what to write about.I was once told to write a poem a day even if you have nothing to say, just sit down and right the first things the come to mind. I used to do that shit and I got very proficient at writing poetry daily. I mean, like Bukowski, not all were excellent, but as usual I had a high percentage of poems that just fit and sounded right. But writing a blog. You definitely have to have something to say. This is no game. This is some serious assed shit.
Blogs are nothing to be played with, and you have to conduct yourself seriously. If not, then crises develop and you are in pitched battle with yourself. You start to doubt and second guess your skills. This is not good. Someone said to me lately, "How do you come across all of the topics that you write about? In over six years, you still have a topic to crank or praise. How is that possible?" Well, to tell you the truth, I question life.
I wonder what makes people tick and then come to a conclusion whether they like it or not. Case in point, those bible thumpers that claimed that last Saturday would be the end of the world. What the fuck is that about ? Okay, so you had all of these Jesus freaks roaming around the city and shouting out in the subways that we had to repent of our sins because in twenty five minutes God was going to take up the faithful and incinerate the rest.
I thought about it for a moment. Maybe I should make a pit stop next to their table covered with pamphlets, leaflets and books and have my tires rotated and oil checked by a pit crew, thus getting sanctified and freeing myself of all sins before the rapture. At five minutes to the hour of Armageddon I started to be nice and think of all the shit that I didn't get a chance to do. Such as write a poem for the day, blog, masturbate. I wonder if they'll have masturbation in Paradise?
I tried to get my shit together at the 5 minute warning. At the time I was entering the Bowery Poetry club and taking my seat in the crowded space. It wouldn't be long now before the floor opened up and everybody in the building fell into Hell. I sat down in a row near the back next to OBSIDIAN and we listened to the show. My friend, the musician on the stage, did a bang up job. This was his CD release party and the poets were aplenty. I bopped my head to the beat of the music as the world came to an end.
The rapture might have happened. I don't know. All my poet friends were still around. So I wasn't alarmed by anything. There were no zombies walking down the block munching on people, so I went on the Poetry Pub Crawl. In the beginning of it, I was pulled into being a feature along with OBSIDIAN. Funny thing, my stomach was killing me. Maybe my body was trying to get enraptured. The hard way.
But while in sheer pain, I went through the pub crawl, some five or six pubs in total and read in front of every one of them. We were out in the middle of the sidewalk, in a large circle, reading to each other our poems and to passerby in the streets. I had several people ask to see the book that I was reading from, which was one of my new books on poetry (the fourth one on the right).
Upon finishing the pub crawl, the world still did not come to a fucking end. How fucking depressing is that folks? Almost as depressing as getting onto your blog and having nothing to say? Almost. I am fortunate though. My thoughts are always racing. So much so that I am used to it by now. I am used to many things right now. Missing entries in my blog for lack of something to say, Poetry Pub Crawls, CD Launch parties, and the end of the motherfucking world as we know it.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/05/kick-to-dick.html
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