Historical-philosophical theses "Über den Begriff der Geschichte" ("On the concept of history", 1940, Walter Benjamin) Walter Benjamin bought in 1921 the painting "Angelus Novus" ("New Angel" / "Young Angel") by Paul Klee, painted in 1920, about which the 9th thesis is about
i have words inside of me and i can’t say any of them. i don’t even know what they are. what happened to my voice? it feels like it’s been a while since i had something to say. living underwater, living like a corpse. i wake up and then go back to sleep because “awake” is not “autopilot”.
why am i so tired?
I have been feeling…slow, lately. glitchy. staticky. stagnant.
To be a poet Is not to burn the paper with your words but to be heard when drifting smoke of love and life is gone the poet in us carries on when ink and page and pen are embers it is the beauty one remembers
Like a drug taken for a quarter century, this writing doesn't help like it use to... See, I'm starting to feel like it's working against me Holding me here in pain and misery Cleverly disguised as creativity I use to lie and say it was a way to get rid of all this negativity But I've spilled so much blood and tears onto stationary ...and not even purely metaphorically... I should be completely empty Hell, I think I might be I think it's moved onto draining my energy Can I still call this writing therapy? Is it healthy or does it keep me from a new me? Holding tightly but in spite of me Hiding a different side of a complex personality A new level of maturity Is it actually helping any? Today it's hard to say, but maybe Unfortunately, it's something I'm good at, a skill I enjoy and I don't have many So I've begun to notice I look at it differently It was suppose to help me let go of the painful unpleasantry held in many a memory But it woke a part of my ego that I didn't know would grip so tightly It might have been a mistake to rely on it so heavily It's no longer moving along the story No cautionary tales to learn from because they never become history It becomes a bookmark that I don't use properly I never move it to the page I left off on and now, I must admit openly, I'm doing it purposely I keep the worst of me right next to me, close as a frienemy All because I notice I DON'T write when I'm happy And I like to write so I dance around emotions strategically I don't know if it's anything worth saying but writing is calling and drawing me in closely A ghostly presence that when I look closely I see my identity It hasn't always been but is now a big part of me But does it want all of me? Can't say either way with any certainty No AH-HA moment, no clarity, only a death grip on disparity So I recklessly walk the line of happy and tragedy Like a DUI test on the side of the freeway, drunken pageantry Eyes closed mainly No thought of mine or anyone else's safety Dangerously close to calamity And I just worry
There is a force at work that doesn't want me to write. There's always something vying for my attention. The phone rings, the kittens want played with, I get *****. All I have to do is think about writing, and the next thought is I should take a nap.
To read about writing isn't enough. To promote my writing won't cut it either. To finish one more poem, to communicate something worthwhile is what will help me sleep tonight, and keep the undertaker lonely and afraid.
If you get the chance, check out my YouTube channel. My book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems is available on Amazon.