POETIC LICENSES

re-watching KILL YOUR DARLINGS.....brought my own adolescence to early twenties from the fog of forgotteness that leaves but the artistic fiction words, written, after whatever the facts may have been, although they, like Virgina Woolf, lay, exhausted, on the smooth rocks of Lifeflow......Pour another absinthe.....the bongo bohemium poem is always happening, around midnight, somewhere.....peel the candle wax off that cheap French wine bottle......in this place, it's probably 'good smoking'.......or just have another Lucky Strike.......and keep that ticket stub....it may be worth something, someday......just keep Everything........or, just write it down.......

 

  Phurbas into the ground! Contain all the dark energies that abound this time of year, then project them into a sharp object as it is stabbed into the Earth....There....that feels much better.......Clinging to remnants of the fabric of childhood, with associations contrived to give new meaning, reversing the inexpressible praeternatural longing that stymies the logical devices of youthful process thinking, aged children, drooping petals of spent flowers, call to figments of their past, grasping for understanding, compassionate renderings of their own histories, the completion of grounded dreams and expectations, the revelations of constructs that are but fabrications of necessity. Veristes

  the green becomes grey and brown, coiling into Halloween shapes.... now weightless, lofting into the breezes.. then crashing, broken, already becoming the stuff of tomorrows, in the endless recycling of matter and energy......

  as the vacuum rushes to the still of nothing, feeling the elemental parts drawn to distance, the weak bonds of thought holding the abstract, tenuous strings connecting the all and empty, an idea occurred to me that liquefied the construct of indivisibility, planeing the coarse irregularity of comprehension and connecting the liquid reality..... Yet, still without words to make it so, the inchoate ghost of realization would not yet take form.... though, in my mind's eye, it was as real as the words that attempt to make it so...Esse Est Percipi......

from my first psychedelic days........after my first 'reefer' 1966 Written, Discarded and Rediscovered, a poem written on a scrap of paper, with a 'property of the U.S. government pen'........I must have heard "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" before writing this......I assume, anyway...but the poem is dated 1967!....Who knows? I must have been smoking something in Werner's private bath room on the top of Building 4200! On another scrap of paper.....were the lyrics to 'White Rabbit'......Go ask Alice! I sat in tweed and redwood, thinking; But, lost in thinking, fell asleep, and dreaming, dreamt Of curious torn plastic trees And tangerine lemonade stands, An arc of animals, helter skelter...running, My palms against their backs. Water and straws, ice cubes and limericks, Poems of cream and of plums-- Redolent roses, fresh grass and Keats; Hallux distortion, Charles Darwin's feet, Yellow parakeets, blue crocuses and peyote flow...