I don’t know, man. I don’t know why I do this stuff. I don’t know what’s good or bad or why.
Sometimes I read something really plain and it’s perfect. It’s just a description of feelings but it’s worded in such a way that it makes me think something new and I like it. Sometimes I read something that’s a really dense image and it’s perfect. It’s just a visual that I can see so strongly that I can hear and taste it. Sometimes I read something that’s totally abstract and it’s perfect. It’s just interpretable in so many ways and I can see it in all of them without thinking too hard.
Other times, a poem will be just feelings and it will be awful, or a dense image that doesn’t mean anything, or whathaveyou. It might be abstract but word salad.
I have a statement I’ve been sticking to for a few years now that seems to never leave my brain when judging the art of others and whether or not something is a poem: art is either beautiful or shocking or both.
I have, personally, not found anything that can be art and not fit there.
Mostly I don’t judge my own work by that. I try to be surprising. But I think I’m not.
I don’t know, man. I’m not even sure why I’m still writing poetry. I’m touching fire and it’s not burning me anymore. I’m not surprised by anything I do. Maybe I’m too close to it. Looking back over old work I feel a sense of connection and completion that I don’t with what I write now.
I think school is fucking me up. I don’t think I’m getting better. I’m just going through a circle of abstract (then hearing people don’t “get it”) to really explicit (then hearing “there’s no mystery”) and then back to abstract. I dunno where the middle ground is anymore.
But yet, I can take a picture and people love it and it’s a lot less work.
I’ve been doing this a lot longer than I’ve been taking pictures, but I have probably taken a lot more pictures than written poems. I mean, I have had paper and pen since I was little, but a photo only takes a couple of seconds to compose and snap.
I completed a book of poetry in 2005 called You May Waltz To Your Doom In Sanguine Stained Shoes. I bought an ISBN for it but like, it’s from a self publisher, so it’s not available on Amazon, even though you can find it there.
Maybe another day.