Writing: The Ten Year Plan

To understand what I will be writing ten years from now, we must first understand what I write now, or better yet, maybe we should start with why I write now. After all, who is me (whoever that is), what seems presumptuous to utter as it would make me both criticizer and critic (which makes me feel a bit Ouroborosly bloated), when is now always now, unless it’s ten years from now, then when would be then, where is irrelevant to ones and zeros, go and chase the tail back to the teeth of hyper text protocols, ask a noisy zero where, and listen if you hear it yawn above halfway to one, but why is a question I will answer honestly, why indeed. I write now as a defense against the madness that is today. I write because this world was bequeathed to us by a yesterday full of passionate idiots, maniacal madmen, and far too many sad, quiet, thoughtful sots. I do not mean to disparage the sots, I find the same sort of refuge in words that the sot finds at the bottom of a barrel. Les sots et les mots; les sots de mots. A fuss of words or whiskey. Le fossé des mots ou whisky. Womp, Womp. Words are my refuge from a world gone mad. But, because I am very much a part of that world, albeit – of it, but not in it, instead of in it, but not of it-, I am possessed by the same madness that plagues this world. Its 140 character limit. Its reality tv stars. Its book of faces. Its googly, Googles. Its Google forsaken BLOGS! It is a sort of all sides madness. It’s the sort of madness that shakes you down to your toes and makes you wake with your thumb, middle and pointing fingers numb, (all opposable thumbs be damned, three fingers pointing back at you, & a bird flipped to infinity) having clenched inward so hard to discover something inside yourself other than what is outward, only to find there is no rabbit in the hat – only a looking glass. Art is still that looking glass, although hand held, subjective, a selfy stick pointing outward. What about the author – still dead? I should hope so, less he be forced to suffer the dye and the microscope of the outrages critic. What I write is a reflection of the madness I see. It makes me happy to get it right. Like I’ve captured the last plague carrying critter in a once great mansion irreversibly ravaged by lies. I imagine in ten years, I will be doing much the same. I think, ten years from now, I will write perfect, dirty poems, of the highest order. The sort that ought to be carved in secret (in the middle of the night) meticulously, using stencils, on a bathroom stall, only to be removed with great care and placed on the walls of the MOMA for all to admire.

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