Just let things be

coffee words2

I don’t want to talk about words,
I just want to write them and let them be.
Much like I don’t want to talk about coffee,
I just want to drink it,
Let it wake me,
Invigorate me,
Blood pressure,
Vein pulsate me,
Hazelnut, Woods, fruits,
Palate me,
I taste it,
It tastes me
Can’t we just let words be,
Must we relegate them to philosophy’s misery?

Strange the poetry snobs, the literature snobs, the art snobs, the coffee snobs and the culinary snobs. They all share this common thread of intellectually masturbating over moot points to show just how grand their philosophies are……..

Shit! I just did the same.

I do have a point I am getting to so it may be worth it.

Sometimes I just want to taste something….. I don’t want to describe it. I don’t want to talk to you about it. I just want to taste it.

Other times, your mundaneness creeps me the fuck out. Say something poignant, worthy, beneficial, educating, enlightening, questioning, pressuring, something other than frivolous and trivial.

A coffee can do that to you. Can make you a snob, or just hit you in the heart and raise your rate like it’s meant to, sharpen your synapses and wake you out of slumber.

But the coffee is just the metaphor…..let words be, leave them alone unless the author asks of you.


The worth of you

life is like a sentence2

I am
Life is like a sentence, a mere dot can end you.

And of what use is your uppity upper case,
Your grammar embrace,
Your word space,
Your sentence brace,
Your prose grace,
Your meter pace,
Italic type face
If a mere dot is your efface!


Even if our art is the painting of paper with words, the fact remains, none of it is but a drop in the ocean of ink that came before us and will flow after us.
Line after line, stroke after stroke, until we become the fading dot.

Pay your dues to the masters who you owe your craft to. Pay your dues before you’re due.


Agitation for art


Reflecting back on my youth until present, whether it was paint, drawing, music or writing even building and fabricating, none of it could occur without an underlying gnawing of agitation.
Agitation of the mind, heart or soul, something had to be agitated for art to manifest.

On writing.


Franz Kafka said to his adoring Fiance

You once said that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of self-revelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind. That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough.

Yes, this true! I agree wholeheartedly with him. Any writer that needs an audience to complete his work is a show pony, not a stallion of the desert of words.