I am no longer in love with poetry, but rather with baloney. By this I mean I am interested in those intellectual subjects such as history and philosophy which so misconstrue and demean human life. Why would I care? I can only say that nothing I do can affect the bedrock of existence. I am a skittering rodent or a crawling vermin looking for sustenance on the surface that has been provided for me to inhabit. This surface is full of foreboding inclines, forbidden substances, and competitors as vicious or as lost as I am. Certainly there are fascinating possibilities of hiding within a hollow or below an outcropping of waste or of following the intricate and doubled-back paths which abound in this disarray. There are also succulent sources of sustenance such as this decayed outgrowth or that droplet of liquid making its way into a muddy slough of some inches in extent. But this bubble of life depending on surface tension and a certain distribution of material for its existence is merely a dependent, conjectural residue on the great and stony matters of life, those which engage most human mortals: getting and giving what is necessary to maintain self, family and community in a world of apparently cruel majesty and dangerous triviality. I can do nothing but be an INDICATOR and OBSERVER whose own fragility and possible inanity turn others' attention back to the matter of living within the given environment: earth, water, sky; demons, allies, governors. The commentary is contingent; the continent, of cold clay.
If a stick breaks in a forest under the feet of a rhino, is the sound peaceful or one for some small regret?
I will probably write verse but it won't bring together people. As I am, I live for supposition, fantasy and dreams. That won't interest you, or --?
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