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Reading Poetry | Something Up With I Will Not Put
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Something Up With I Will Not Put

And I will begin with ‘and’ because this is going to be adult themed: asshole futhermuckers. Words will do nothing to you or for you. I will say, right now, ‘GOD! Strike me dead.’ And look, nothing happened. I will go on writing.


And I will write whatever it is as they go on managing projects and worrying about the stock market and starting businesses and applying for loans and trading goods and buying bread. And I will continue to start sentences with conjunctions. I will not be able to write as fast and hard as my mind will think. I will scrunch my nose while I’m writing, as I’m doing now. But I will still not be able to express myself fully, completely, absolutely vehemently enough, thoroughly, assiduously, indefatigably, etc.


I could write from now until the cows come home, udderly bovine things, and not make any good jokes.


But tonight my vocabulary got me somewhere: right back here at my house. And I could write for days and not say a damned thing. And you can take your Tolstoys and Dostoyevskys and Faulkners and Hemingways and Dickens’ and Thackerays and Flauberts and Balzacs and shove them up your fun-loving ass until they spring from your cock-sucking mouth. Because anger needs to come out somewhere; why not the mouth?


There is one thing I know I’d like, besides beginning sentences with conjunctions; I’d like to laugh in the face of every priest, rabbi, minister, pastor, and imam in this world. Strike me dead right now for my heresy! But Look! No. I go on writing ceaselessly. No one is going to do a goddamned thing.


And all these words add up to shit. I could continue this from now until the day I die, and I would only be building bridges to connect my commas, semicolons, colons, and periods. Screw question marks and exclamations!


And for goddamn sake: go on being project managers and account managers and sales reps and insurance brokers and bondsmen and day traders—all these things that will bring you wealth so that you can provide for your progeny. They will grow to perform one of those aforementioned functions, too. They will procreate off into oblivion. There is nothing wrong with any of it.


But they could never express their feelings in the inarticulate way that I can. What does it get me to know who Goethe was? And how to pronounce his name… nothing! Absolutely fucking nothing.


But I will go on and so will you. But when you get angry, what do you do? I guess I sit up all night writing pages and pages and buckets and buckets of bullshit—udderly bovine bullshit that smells to the apocryphal heavens. I could write until I die and will still be thirsty for words.


I am no Kafka, Pynchon, Nabokov, or Proust. But you know what? I am feeling better now than when I sat down to write my first ‘and’. And maybe someday I will write poems like Byron and Tennyson and others with Lord in their names: or maybe I can match Yeats or Elliot or other poets with initials before their surnames. But only in my dreams: dreams of fish that turn into hands, dreams of mansions that turn to caves, and dreams of gold that turns to shit.


I promised not to edit or censor one word of this. I am verbose right now. I’m vulgarly verbose. And if only I spoke more languages, then maybe I could say all this in French; maybe it would sound better. But I am in no mood to contemplate joie de vivre.


Screw it all until tomorrow when I can do laundry or drive my car or something.

Writer, Drummer, Landman, Gambler

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