Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running — that’s the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are redhot and you can’t hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that’s all.
~ Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
Tell me, why do we require a trip to Mount Everest in order to be able to perceive one moment of reality? I mean… I mean, is Mount Everest more “real” than New York? I mean, isn’t New York “real”? I mean, you see, I think if you could become fully aware of what existed in the cigar store next door to this restaurant, I think it would just blow your brains out! I mean… I mean, isn’t there just as much “reality” to be perceived in the cigar store as there is on Mount Everest?
~Wallace Shawn, My Dinner with Andre
Isn’t poetry, whatever else it may be (and it can be a lot of other things), a pointing of a finger at some facet of this living and saying, if only in a whisper: look at that. Fascinated. Intrigued. Wild-eyed. Curious George passed out next to a bottle of ether.
All poets are drunk, just on different things at one particular moment in time.
Thus,…Poets of the Magnets:
Ken, “night lights”
Merril, “Sweet Water Song”
Merril, “Look Out! They’re Here”
Crow, “stars and smoke”
Writing Writing Words Words Words, “At the Bar”
Thanks to all those who participated. If I missed your entry from last week, just put a link into the comment section below and I will post it tomorrow.