Two Obsessions of a Minor Poet-Dreamer - February 1, 2009

I

I have two obsessions.
Both unhealthy.
Both forever mine.
One is to be famous.
But that is something that doesn’t matter.
For to be famous,
I want them to know what it’s like.
To be me.
To crave for the touch of genius.
Daily.
And know it is denied.
To be in love
and have that love nightly shattered.
I want to escape
into the hidden pastures of the Rockies.
To enter into the palace of light.
There,
I would shed my thought.
Pure feeling.
Pure love.
And thus I know I would be justified.

II

The other obsession?
To escape the burden of understanding.
Too much pressure.
Too much to know, to understand, to live.
I want to slink away into night,
ready for the cool embalming embrace of my tomb.
I want to escape the traditions
of my father.
The father who knows nothing of my mind.
I want to burn the ol’ bitch mothers.
Fortunate?
I have cast aside my message
of hope, because it is a lie.

III

I am a child of the blasting sands.
Bastard son of a bastard time,
living on bastard rhymes.
These eyes are the eyes of Pilate,
of a renegade in a backward country
with a bizarre decision, unlooked for,
thrust upon my shoulders.
I wish to escape the night.
Go into the hot ether of my own forbidden love.
I am the evolution of all saints.
The form magnificio of all human knowledge.
Pinnacle.  Thangorodrim. Thrangodrim.
My darkness never ends.

IV

Over the years I have lain out all that I have seen.
Lain out all my thoughts.
Yet one thing should be understood.
Fundemental to all that I have done, have said.
Two things must be noted.

First, a great loneliness is inherent in all that I know.
Second, anger underlies the entire foundation.
This I have long known.
This, I must not deny.
For to deny either would be to deny me.

So I venture out, and continue to build.
I can’t help but smile.
The joke’s on me, and always has been.
I have long been at work
in fields I do not understand,
in constrained my selves to forms beyond my intellect.
So I write freely.
So I write because I can do no other.
Yet it is beyond me.

The power of expression has been stripped.
Has been laid to waste.
I speak with the violence of a man condemed.
To lose so much
of your labor is a hard blow for any creature.
Even God.
And to lose all that I know and have loved -
that would undo my mind.










The following lines were written as part of this poem, but I cut them from the work.

(Stray lines written with Two Obsessions)

The death cult has arisen in your own backyard.
Skid row,
In the 1960s I wrote my love letter to Los Angeles.
I lost it along the way to Fremont.
Fought with the Hell’s Angels just to see the Stones play.
And then I forgot how to count to ten.

So little to do
in the hot arid night.
I smile, thinking back.
I wrote a perfect poem, once.
Just once.
But that was all I asked.
And I lost the damn thing.
Lost it
on the way to a ball game.
Or perhaps a bar.
Never got out of my head.
Been chasing it ever since.

This is how the mind works.
Fragmented.
Fleeting.
From one train to another.
From one lost process to another.
I swallow my words.
Just to make sure I know what they mean.

Master of mummies, arise.
you have a new poet laureate.

So I go into the ether.
I’ll burn the bar down.
















The original draft of Two Obessions

I have two obsessions.
Both unhealthy.
Both forever mine.
One si to be famous.
But that is something that doesn’t matter.
For to be famous,
I want them to know what it’s like.
To be me.
To crave for the touch of genius.
Daily.
And know it is denied.
To be in love
and have that love nightly shattered.
I want to escape
into the hidden pastures of the Rockies.
To enter into the palace of light.
There,
I would shed my thought.
Pure feeling.
Pure love.
And thus I know I would be justified.

The other obessesion?
To escape the burden of understanding.
Too much pressure.
Too much to know, to understand, to live.
I want to slink away into night,
ready for the cool embalming embrace of my tomb.
I want to escape the traditions
of my father.
The father who know snothing of my mind.
I want to burn the ol’ bitch mothers.
Fortunate?
I have cast aside my message
of hope, because it is a lie.

I am a child of the blasting sands.
Bastard son of a bastard time,
living on bastard rhymes.
These eyes are the eyes of Pilate,
of a renegade in a backward country
with a bizaare decision, unlooked for,
thrust upon my shoulders.
I wish to escape the night.
Go into the hot ether of my own forbidden love.
I am the evolution of all saints.
The form magnificio of all human knowledge.
Pinnecal.  Thrangodrim.
My darkness never ends.

In the 1960s I wrote my love letter to Los Angeles.
I lost it along the way to Fremont.
Fought with the Hell’s Angels just to see the Stones play.
And then I forgot how to count to ten.

So little to do
in the hot arid night.
I smile, thinking back.
I wrote a perfect poem, once.
Just once.
But that was all I asked.
And I lost the damn thing.
Lost it
on the way to a ball game.
Or perhaps a bar.
Never got out of my head.
Been chasing it ever since.

This is how the mind works.
Fragmented.
Fleeting.
From one train to another.
From one lost process to another.
I swallow my words.
Just to make sure I know what they mean.

Master of mummies, arise.
The death cult has arisen in your own backyard.
Skid row,
you have a new poet laureate.

So I go into the ether.
I’ll burn the bar down.