pure art

To know poetry is to know something Aristotle didn't, a psychic fact that can't be taught but learned only by reading between the lines, by listening to the world and swimming in the wine dark blood that pulses and throbs in a robin's wrenched calling. They are the pure poets who ride the crest of the world's own warbling wobble and sing those rhythms back into creation. Theirs are the red breast and song and that is why: the emblem of Orpheus is given them to wear.

Analysis is vivisection of the soul, a lifeless prize for sterile writers anal in their cross-eyed probing of colon and semi-colon [are we there yet?], never to find the pulsing heart of living art. You have to surf the quantum wave and feel it splashing all about you all the time, circadian in the marrow of yourself, a tickle and a hum that sends your syllable page-ward in abandonment of conscious worry. You will know it when you finally do it, burst beyond the primate rules of social gaming and express pure art that is at once an animal instinct and an invitation to the gods by invocation wrought as music.

A little sacrament with wine and bread won't go awry but steers the wheel to bliss--and this I'm sad to say disqualifies too many worried about their covenant with narrow, unforgiving prescriptions. It's one thing to fear God and entirely another to be scared to death of Him.

Poetry requires meditation and that requires time and patience, indolence and rainfall patter in the senses and the smell of earth and vegetation; for the nose knows keenly memories transcending presence. This can only cancel out the all too freaking *B*I*Z*Z*Y* whose lives are tight schedules precisely designed to please their overlords to the final nuanced moment to retirement. Stupid fools. You might have had the time. It's yours not theirs. How I love and long for and ultimately miss intelligent conversation with a friend, a thing most certainly murdered by machines, the last gasp of the human being. Congratulate yourselves. You are no longer human. You are either snob or slob, the one of whom cannot make time, the other of whom cannot make use.

Sometimes you can't tell them apart as they jog through the park. Frankly I suspect they run away from actual people. I feel like a voice in the wilderness screaming why are you jogging? It isn't good for you! It robs you of breath and breadth, of time and ease. You can simply walk to work! It's better for you as you gain the full flavor of the day. And please: the robins are singing. Politely remove your idiot iPods, and hear a sermon direct from Benelovence.

"Hairy fist and love will die." Machines have lately obsolesced the male. There's a recipe for sperm now. You can google it but who will change the oil in your car? Some dainty droid? And who will fight for you? Drag queens may dress like you but don't be fooled. They'll never stand and fight, not for a woman they won't. "Hairy fist and love will die," and with it true poetry, so prophesied Bukowski.