poetry's like my no-no spot right now. i can't make it go; instead i write derivative bullcrap hardly caring and place it onto the surface of the internet like a douche de noel or whatever those french cakes are that are supposed to look like logs but on the inside resemble giant hostess ho-ho's.
or let me put it this way, me: my love of my writing is about as profound as my total incomprehension of what it's doing. because i was taught to read using hop on pop, language for me is nothing but sound, and in poetry, in reading and writing poetry, all i can do is hop on to the backs of the sounds and hope that i'm either reading or writing it in deep enough because meaning escapes the word in my mind about as quickly as the unsuspecting waterbug shoots down the surprise waterfall. i guess i can't explain it, in other words. but i am stuck in it.
not that it's unenjoyable. it's just that until i have any sliver of comprehension re: what i'm putting on the virtual page, and what others are putting on the pages i read, i have no idea how to start doing poetry as opposed to having poetry do me.
cuz i can't call it poetry. i can instead ask certain questions of frank o'hara's. but he asked them better. i can start agreeing with myself that it's fun. i can wait around, spicerian. i can suck...oh, wait, that's kind of a given. and i'm not good enough to be any fresher than i am...and i'm not original enough to redefine freshness...and i'm not smart enough to get to the center of what i'm writing anyway. true confessions of a twentysomething.
none of this is bugging me much except for the blatant feeling of inadequacy. but that was there anyway. because i don't have a penis. freud was totally correct on that one.
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