there is no comfort in being stationary….the same place for too long….a need of travels to cities where life changes…yet rules remain….some rules…

a need for a home….a bed….a toothbrush-holder…maybe monogramed coffee-cups…the car….the life-insurance policy…playing it safe…?

Ramirez said, You’ll never write anything worth a shit until you’ve suffered, boy was he right…and maybe that’s what the artist does….live a life of suffering….merely for the sake of art….

comfort destroys creation….the soul grows soft and nothing is absorbed…learned….experienced…and that is the rub…..

crying out to be loved…to be warm on cold nights…under blankets with a lover you can cling-to….walks…talks….feeding each other with forks and finger-tips….

or to continue this chaotic course of never safely landing….no net…naked on the page…..the reward is the story….the verse…

it will drive you mad….this life….it will drive you mad….

take-up your cross poet…go to the next town and the next town and the next town….but what grows from movement?….what can be attained?

a bookbag of underwear and Miller…a soul of Kerouac and mysticism….a romantic who never gets the girl….these are the gifts of literary loves…the life of the writer…

observing….reporting…telling tales in truth….with craft and discipline…and suffering….

nothing dramatic…just some pain…tis all that is required….a small price is a life….there will be other lives…

one’s to persue academia in…or the selling of insurance….a bond…a stock-option…a political pawn…but…this one is that of the poet….and motion is needed…

a movement like Whitman…or Papa Bear….the Beats….drinks on me….the scrounging for a word at five in the morning that’s kept you up all night…that perfect word…the one that fits…

it could be in San Francisco…or dear old Manhattan…maybe Chicago…that word is out there…

go find it….just go and find it….