|Akashi Gidayu (writing his death poem before committing Seppuku) by Yoshitoshi Tsukioka c. 1890|
My dream has been to craft writing that matters. I am motivated by a need to emphasize the direct spontaneity of mind as, in essence, a creative intuition, where through honing a creative craft, significance is placed on the world uniquely and honestly, without narrow frames of reference. I am interested in the whole being, including one's dreams which only reveal themselves in one's most private, trusted, spirit-bound state: sleep, or intoxication in a poetry which reflects the true, unadulterated nature of mind.
Read my recent publication at ditch, the poetry that matters
Sitting around a table at a cozy bookshop, I am unaware as to my true motivation and internally neglect my immediate surroundings. I sit around a group of people with small, cottage industry books, with handmade paper and designs painted right on. They are of all sizes and degrees of detail, mostly amateurish, though charming. Many sneer at me as I handle five-stacked copies of poets.org magazine. People begin reading. As I listen, I inwardly revolt. “I can’t read with these people,” I think. As my turn comes, I feel exceedingly confident, and begin reading my piece to great delight. The second piece I read starts with a Latin phrase, including “spiritus” and other recognizable Latin terms. A man scoffs at me from across the table. Other people feel lessened by my proud nature, stifling their humiliated travails with my officialdom. I receive no congratulations. Forget community inspiration.
"To visit a book store in your dream, foretells you will be filled with literary aspirations, which will interfere with your other works and labors." (iDream)
___________Controlled by the mind of unborn dreaming
as our mundane praise sickens the grieving
erasure of a loveless burden
"for the intensity of an aspiring fear?
towards the weird?"
pour over their bandaged fingers of torrent
for one emotional quake
To the nervous body of tradition
tortured by the hours of sitting
in tragic rooms
oblivious to all the news in the world
of gross and entombed friendships
with the eternally dead
To writing possibilities in the voice
of a suicidal mage
Thanking the lessons of the flesh
in an impoverished state
- excerpt from "a message for the few"