I’m jetlagged, up early with plans to work out brutally with a friend but it’s raining in New York City, so that’s cancelled. I should write, but I’m too foggy yet hyped up and just don’t feel like it. I’ll probably troll FB and make snide comments on lots of shit that irritates me (well, everything) and remix poems that drive me up a wall. Am I a dick?
In related news, if you troll my site you will see that I often hate my own poems. One of my professors once told me that Anne Sexton used to read her poems publicly with a pencil in her hand and cross stuff out and rearrange things as she read out loud. I think the poetic soul is restless, unsatisfied, and just generally surly. Mine is. The thing that seems to be constantly out of whack and even changing as the world grows and the universe reconsiders everything and nothing and cares deeply and apathetically is the rhythm. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm. They say when buying a house or learning how to throw a fastball “location, location, location.” Well, I say two main things to myself when writing: one, “so what?” and two, “rhythm, rhythm, rhythm!”
Personally, I think writing poetry makes my prose flow better and activates it. It gives it energy and sizzle. I mean we write to entertain. Who wants flat and boring? I mean, outside of FB (teehee). I’m not sure if writing prose helps my poetry. Probably not. I think the only thing that would help my poetry is electric shock therapy, but I guess I’m not much of an artist because I’m not willing to make that kind of sacrifice.