MrMary’s Take on Poetry Writing Month: Day 2

When I was visiting LA last time I wanted to rent a wig (long hair) and run down like Broadway shirtless like Anthony Keidis in this video you see up there. My lady convinced me not to do so.

Whenever I don’t feel well mentally, emotionally, psychologically physically ( if I can stand to) I walk around the city. I just get lost in Manhattan. I make 2 rights and a quick left adjust my collar and I am no on. I’m just a face walking around. I look at things with different eyes, and while doing so things happens. Words come together with other words and then my notebook comes out and BAM!!!! something happens. I usually like to sit and write at a Starbucks.

If you have been to NYC recently you will know that Starbucks are like herpes on the pubic region of NYC’s privates. They are every fucking place, Well not true there are no Starbucks at ghettos, poorer neighbourhood, although some malls, bookstore and places might have  little Starbucks kiosk or corner.  You can always find what neighbourhoods are being gentrified which as my homeless friend on a corner in Harlem says means ” Kicking the niggas and Puerto Ricans out, and moving white people in”. On my travels I have befriend homeless people, fed ducks at a park, take lost tourist to where they needed to be. Those are really beautiful times.

I remembered this the other day

A poet‘s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.
Yevgeny Yevtushenko

it would be interesting if that were true. I think a poets autobiography are the pauses and moments of silence that one happens upon when reading the his or her works. This thing is unedited. I wrote it on such a day. The rhythm and cadence is close to what I want, the diction and imagery  can be touched up. But it’s raw just how I like it 🙂

Foundations of an Imaginary Separation


The sun’s hanging high in the sky and everyone
feels the warmth of that statement, even we who

walk in the shadows of skyscrapers; man’s impuissance
in front of Nature is a terrible and dear commodity.

It’s the missing element in the story of Eden. Having crafted
feebleness into our hands could we really have been

kicked out of that closeness? Eden is here now sitting with us
but like the sun, we cut ourselves off from the sight of its

majesty in the distance, having built this world on the foundation
of an imaginary separation

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