Steve Richmond, Meat Poet, Died Recently!

 ——————-they’re driving
——————–knapsack
———-around their neck with the bully
———————————part of the knapsack
hanging over the back of their
———————-front seat
—————–and swinging at rear seat ass level

they are not so easy to describe

—————you
——————–gentle
——————–reader
–try describing your own
——————–demons
————————-sometime

Steve Richmond

My demons are mostly supine and asleep on tanning beds.  They rouse when I’m cold, or horny, or tired, or angry.  The fiercest demon I wrestle with nowadays calls himself ennui and makes me watch sit-coms all day.

 I wonder what Richmond’s demons are doing to(for) him now!?  

Meat Poetry!?

I was convinced that the subject of meat poetry was just absurd enough to be non-existent, but after a little googling I discovered that “meat poetry”is a genre apparently introduced by Bukowski.  What an exciting discovery.  I intend to investigate this wierdness until I’m nauseous.  I like meat.  I like poetry.  I like wierdness. I even like Bukowski. It’s a win, win, win!  Let’s look at an example:

who in the hell is Tom Jones?

by Charles Bukowski

I tried to explain.

I was shacked with a

24 year old girl from

New York City for

two weeks   about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34 year

old woman arrived and

she said, “I want to see

my rival.” she did

and then she said, “o,

you’re a cute little thing!”

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats—

such screaming and scratch-

ing, wounded animal moans,

blood and piss . . .

I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to

separate them and fell,

wrenched my knee. then

they were through the screen

door and down the walk

and out in the street.

squadcars full of cops

arrived. a police heli-

copter circled overhead.

I stood in the bathroom

and grinned in the mirror.

it’s not often at the age

of 55 that such splendid

things occur.

better than the Watts

riots.

the 34 year old

came back in. she had

pissed all over her-

self and her clothing

was torn and she was

followed by 2 cops who

wanted to know why.

pulling up my shorts

I tried to explain

Awesome!   A drunken cat fight–a garbage strike–wounded animal moans, blood and piss, such splendid things happening at at age 55.  Clearly everyone in this vignette is despicable and ugly, but I think I love this can of nuts. 

Please don’t explain…

All which isn’t singing is mere talking

all which isn’t singing is mere talking
and all talking’s talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else

drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother’s son-
all is merely talk which isn’t singing
and all talking’s to oneself alone

but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence

ee cummings

Honey, I love you, but I’m not in love with you–I believe in spiritualiity, but not religion–I think I’m in a rut–I feel like crying, but I don’t know why–I hate my life–I love my life–I’m sorry–I crave your touch, but not your attention!?!?

I’m uncomfortable in my own skin and the talk I talk to myself says nothing.  The song I sing to myself communicates forever and love, and God.  The names are words, but the things are like cave paintings and arrowheads, separate from all personality and motive.  Our voices are feeble tools for crafting understanding.  We always paint self portraits with a question mark. 

Silence is the question mark.  The space between two friends is silence.  The hum betweem two lovers is only audible to God.   What needs to be said can never be said.  It can never be said until we have words to say it and when we have words it is no longer worth saying.  The silent music plays ’til the end and we shed our skin and take our comfort, our song, our silence for granted.  

And if that says nothing to you–I offer you silence.

If you’ve found this you need to get out of your parent’s basement!

Shoulderclod is a throwaway handle to use on this first practice blog.  It is the part of a cow that is cut into pot roasts.  It just sounds funny, like something you might call ( and I have called) a truly dopey individual.  What I’m trying to accomplish is to gain a comfort level with blogging in order to set up a blog to support an upcoming book project.  This is an entirely new world to me so if anyone actually reads this–unlikely as that is–please feel free to offer advice, encouragement, taunts, verbal abuse, or sexual propositions.  I will respond to each of those in  the manner that mirrors the spirit in which they were offered.