I Don’t Write Poetry Anymore…
It’s been some time since I have tried to rhyme. Awhile without submitting to alliteration style. As if for weeks I search for poetry in the streets. Try my best to capture couplets that are interesting.
Okay, okay. Grab your coffee. Because this morning I am trying my best to say something. More so I am doing my best to lift myself out of fog; these weeks after a great push to finish yet another chapbook that went live on Amazon, and also working out some kinks and finally publishing my new website, and on top of that waiting for final results of health related issues, and to top that all off, making final arrangements for leaving once again the United States for parts known and unknown, well, I’ve been sort of without words.
My new book.
Breathe. Poetry? Not happening. My life right now too many line breaks to make line-break-aches. And really this time of reflection filled with trying out new directions. Like focusing on what-and-if-and-how the art of photography becomes front and center in my pursuits of living a creative life instead of navel gazing on how broken, broken boys have unmade me these past years.
This past month or so I’ve been filling up my Facebook and Instagram with dozens of images. It’s sort of my way of opening up a closet and just tossing anything that seems interesting out there in an attempt to declutter and eventually razor pin focus on something more consistent. That closet has hundreds of thousands of captures taken over the last twelve years as well as the thousands of new photographs I seem to add in the weeks I’ve spent in one place getting back to my Jay-mojo.
I’m sorry for this disparate cob-web of words. The truth is all week I’ve struggled to sleep, to eat, to work on a new project using my fifteen year old photographs of Vietnam, to write anything legible. To think I can snuggle up myself in some corner and write out couplets… well, it’s beyond me right now. Remember, I’m face forward in a closet, my non-ass hanging out, flurry of wind-milling arms and hands chucking out hoarded photographs.
I’m okay. I’m just, you know, distracted. Why can’t I just be normal. Become a Greeter at Walmart. Taco Bell and pretend it’s health. Laugh at people who photo montage animal heads onto church steeples. Why can’t I just shake my ass on Tik-Tok and become Instafamous… oh, yeah, right— God decided to make my life always search for Job-like purity and say more with less, ah, attributes.
How’s the coffee? Mine’s turned to cool ashes. So it’s time to walk my 10,000 steps and clear my head. To think that when I reach step number 10,001 I deserve poetic justice.
