When all this horror ends. Death ends from this virus. When we have thrown all the walking talking garbage, excrement out of our Whitehouse, the lunatic sociopath and all his corporate friends and buddies. When we as the people who have the true power learn that we cannot trust let alone ever again follow both monied Republicans nor Democrats because of their complete incompetency during this time of mass desolation and we have finally renewed our freedom, re-established our Constitution and our liberty and have put in change/elected intelligent, experienced & actually educated and smart people whose job it will be to repair and heal all of the monsterous actions that Trump and his cabinet have done to our country, world and environment … our people and our nation then maybe one-day when I am very old I will start writing poems about beauty, love, nature and maybe even flowers. But until that day comes I will with all my heart and all my soul write poems that are true and I will fight the powers that be until this vision this hope finally comes true and becomes a reality. So until that day I will not change nor accept the condition of this country or world and neither should you.
Because America my friends is in ruins due to the fault of one single insane individual and we know what must be done whether your conscience chooses to accept it or not. For we have been used, lied to and betrayed. Thousands are now either unemployed or dead. And this is unforgivable.
So will you just watch all this happening from the comfort of your living room? Or are you a real human being who believes that this world should be safe and free for your children and many generations to come?
Life, poetry in general is about experience and language. How you present this rare magic is key. The writer or poet is not an expert. It’s how you present it. In other words? Each God is a God and each man is a man or for that matter woman. A line is a line and beauty is beauty. Tragedy is tragedy and you own both. There are no workshops or religions that can ever teach you to be you or how to live or write. You must find these words by yourself and then put them down on paper or find your own way, your own path in the dark.
Poetry in any language old or new is the voice us all. A reflection of humanity. Even perhaps a note, a prayer, a mantra or a sign to future generations telling them tomorrow holds what today has lost. Through these voices find yourself.
A shaman and a writer each serve as their communities’ seers by engaging in extraordinary acts of conscientious study of the past and the present and predicting the future. An inner voice calls to the shaman and an essayistic writer to answer the call that vexes the pernicious spirit of their times. Shamanistic writers induce a trance state of mind where they lose contact with physical reality through a rational disordering of the senses, in an effort to encounter for the umpteenth time the great unknown and the unutterable truths that structure existence. An afflicted person seeking clarification of existence cannot ignore the shamanistic calling of narrative exposition. Thus, I shall continue this longwinded howl – making a personal immortality vessel – into the darkness of night forevermore.
As you get older the more things change – for the better or for the worse. Sometimes being a writer and becoming somewhat of an self-isolationist is like being in a sanctuary and finding your true self, your true voice and words. The outside world never goes away. It will always be there.
“Being a poet isn’t something you are or choose. It’s something that happens to you at irregular intervals and with no guarantee it will happen again. You can disregard it when it does happen but you can’t turn it on. All you can do is wait.”