Exercise #4
Clouds blot light of the sky.
It's only five.
If the pen won’t work. Words won’t form. The meanings are not manifested.
1.) Words do work 2.) Words do work
I know what I want by all that I read or have written.
Poem in a notebook, manuscript, book, reprinted in an anthology. Scripts and contexts differ.
How can I show that the intentions of this work and poetry are identical?
How could it be the same poem?
The fly hums in the otherwise still room. Light filters through the gauze curtains. Spirals of dust.
Dust accumulates wherever I live.
If there are enemies of writing (and there are)
What an elaborate fiction that seems!
A world of routines, of returns to small forms, insistently.
Talking heads of Television.
The rocker in motion, makes no noise.
Counting your fingers one by one by one.
If this were Theory, not practice, would I know it?
Write like what you have not previously seen.
But to write in such circumstance is to return to a prior condition
The page intended to score speech.
Oh, how I dread those numbers.
Those arrangement of ink splattered on the page.
Which determines fates and futures
How silly it must all seem.
What is a score really?
Something flows into my head.
Uncertainty? Anxiety? Fear?
What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do?
What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do?
What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do?
I know...
Playing chess I ought to have, for now, one good offense, and a good defense
Writing is like a game, with its strategies and intricacies.
There are pieces to be moved, arranged in the most advantageous ways.
To drive reader's thoughts and shatter their expectation.
A battle plan.
A mobilization.
An offensive.
Of words.
Shake before using before every meal
Lunchtime, Television, Relax.
I love the early morning light, even shaded I filtered as it is by the curtain. It “informs” this room in the same wholly pleasant fashion. Soft tones, indistinct shadows. Sounds now of Elliot rising. A rough, a blown nose. Traffic, mostly from Sacramento street, Tho it is much heavier one block over on California, is an aural constant. Especially the heavy hum of the #55 buses, Their air brakes, etc. Rae & Chuck, who live over on California, 13 on 14 short blocks east, where Pacific Heights borders JapanTown & THe Fillmore, have it much worse. And they also have a fine company on their block.
In terms of tension, I seem to be living at the edge of a personal limit. 5 months ago nobody in this prison movement outside of CPHJ knew who I was & now I seem to be the dumping ground of all problems.
I wonder of my relation these days to Barbara and/or to Camille. What I could use this morning, beyond of course, another cup of coffee, is a stable sense of self. My writing, my “work”, my personal life seems teared & dislocated. No clear vision. No relaxation. And yet I have a good night's sleep.
The saddening ease into familiarity, The drive up to the capitol, Able now to “see” 714 P Street, home of the Department of Correction & The Adult Authority. As I come, via Greyhound, over the river. Ditta UC Davis, on CM7 at Vacaville. A clear summer valley day, 8:15AM. 5:05 Sacto. It appears that we, CCPO-coordinating council of Prison organization—are fighting a winning battle!! Clarence Williams was willing as was Foran, to structure Wednesday to out suiting, however that may be!
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