Poetry on Writing Writing for the Haul

About this poem

Did you know that MSWord and Google dictionaries only allow you to add a word to the dictionary as long as it is 99 letters long or less. You cannot add a 100-letter word or more than 100-lettered words to the dictionary. I discovered this by adding conjugations upon conjugations exponentially so that the mostestessesterlyerestesses became ers and esses and essesters and essesestersestests and izes and lyers and lyerizings and atings and ations and izings and icals and itals and ogicals and so on, until finally I reached the maximum allowed, which happens to be 99-letter words. Now, I will not bore you with the full details of why I endeavored to undergo such a project, only sharing that I did so to discover how much of the thread of a reconjugationalized root meaning would I be able to hold onto so that meaning yet remained in the endeavor. In other words, I sought to take German and French philosophy and language precedences, such as beingnesses and other freely conjugated versions of words, and see if I could stretch that meaning out into a fractality of near-unendingness, or ad infinitum. I found the longer the conjugations the easier it actually became to hold onto the root and to see how It actually does transform the more it is conjugated and the more diverse the conjugations used the more expansive it becomes. This, I determined sadly, is the only way for me to possibly convey the root ideas of my philosophy book, The Helixical Fractality of Life. So, it will become a paperweight in idea. Unless, I reason, I am able to translate it into a language that is all human senses simultaneously, no matter the disability of senses in anyone and everyone. It is this approach that I also take with and to writing poetry. Mostly, I seek to be a conduit for whatever inspiration comes through in any media: music, singing, voice, performing, dancing, directing, writing, acting, sculpting, photographing, filming, painting, being. As such, I mostly try to get out of the way. This is the paradox. Part conjugationalizing-phuhphuhphreak, part meditative-unconsciously-conscious conduit, nevuh evuh knowing which part and whenwhere will be. Go with the flow, keep keeping Marley-on… You know how some poets want to be known as the poet laureate? Others want to be known as THE LOVE POET. Some wish for no fame, yet secretly harbor desires to become famous after they die. Others just keep on publishing poetry, book after book, in softcover publications, in nonprofit editions, and in self-publishings, in vanity publications, and in anthologies, in exhibitions, in scholarly treatises, in translations, in collaborations, in comic books dressed as graphic novels, in graphic novels dressed as westerns, and so on. Some just know that when they die, people will descend like flocks upon their estate, and marvel thereupon and thereamong as they discover thousands of poems on receipt backs, scrap paper, composition books, never published and mounded in their dresser drawers where no room was left for keepsakes, hair brushes, knickknacks, hair ties, night shirts, socks, t-shirts, bras, miniskirts, shorts, boxerbriefs, heirlooms, tighty-whities, panties, lingerie, undies, or thongs. Others hold themselves in such esteem they offer free advice and counsel, as if they are the gift of poetry and poets anywhere and everywhere, at all times and any time, and to hold their tongue is to do all poetry and all poets in all history an injustice. Some poets become fabric donners so that they might best read the Song of Solomon as to eclipse all other renditions, even that of Solomon himself. Others say, I am a rebel, but no James Dean, no Thoreau, no Emerson, no Dickinson, no Poe, no Shakespeare, no Ovid, no (group or tagteam)-Homer, no Dante, no Seshat, no Angelou, no martyr, no sacrifice, just a medium, normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill Halloween-costume-wearing rebel. Yupyuppersyupperydoo! That’s me!!! Some poets know that this subject is off limits, and that one is politically incorrect, this topic will get you fired, that one will get you hired by an elephant and this one by a donkey, this notion will mark you a target, that one will mean your tombstone in short order. Others simply write, explore, live life as fully as possible, and write some more. Some poets study every form of poetry ever invented and better them. Other poets study every form of poetry invented, except for the ones they find distasteful and avoid them like a plague, and then demurely offer veal cutlets for the grilling. Just as I continually write poetry about poetry itself, about writing poetry, about feeling poetry, about living poetry, about breathing poetry, about wrestling poetry, about battling poetry, about evacuating poetry, about ingesting poetry, about every way in which engaging poetry and being possessed by poetry might appear or manifest or present itself, such as in fragments on scrolls or parchments or stones or walls or underwater in dreams so that all that comes forth with me unto writing consciousness is “…drunkenly vinetarry there in fields of lavender as carrion copse of cadavers litter heather fragrance drifting haggardly on gusts…” as in the dream trod I downtrodden through afterbattle horrormaths…. I too wonder why I write when ifever anyone werethen moved nevuh reallyevuh is known to me but afterwards, when their moment has gone by and is left instead by a testament if even such is left. Since to every single person in the entire world, barring those who have been graciously brainwashed with the exact same interpretation of poetry entoto, poetry is a completely different beast one from the next, even the same poem read at the same time in the same room or space or place never means precisely the same thing to anyone because no two people, even identical twins, are identically alike and thus no one can identically interpret the same thing simultaneously. I am thus left repeatedly with sayingthinkingfeelingseeingperceivingemotingintuiting, Therefore, Poetry is… more »