Annex A _ JTS

ohn, That poem is beautiful and deep, because of how much you love your parents and your sister. The bond is deep and it was made of the way of the Lord. Your life was chosen and you claim the gift of that love from God and from your life and your parents, and family __and it is the core of your work. You have deep abiding faith. It shows in everything you do and say__and that’s only in the imagined lives of the
very real friendships you’ve made here among the rich and famous on the ‘stream’. Suffice it to say, You are a wonder.


So John, I wrote a rant. I hope you don’t mind. I just did it now. This is it’s debut,….As Always I offer myself to be dissolved to the ethers, when I go on like this, but this is dedicated and not quite complete, but very much like me. I have my doubts, but nothing I do is really quite right__ But still,I keep trying, because the art of words is truly a dreaming wonder and sometimes, that’s enough. So….


What’s with you__my scaly friend.
Not exactly.
I’m thinking… more smooth, whale-ish,
not that big.
Maybe a cross between
Leviathan and a porpoise.
A large super intelligent dolphin man.
Under the sea and in the air__
A great all-round wonderful unique,
but usual__
Man for all seasons.

Belief is not imagined.
It is inbred.
The will of artful capture.
The strides of your life.
You remembered to believe.

Raves be damned__
There is no pain in here.
Only pure light__
Lightly falling on the firs.
Quiet stillness, no dream askew.
Wonder of imagined lives,
lived not lost.

Stop: Read on.
Pointless syllogism, arachnid attitudes.
Not ever on your page.
Not true.
You use all device.
You are manly,
a man living
the man__
Your age.

Driven, driving, riding,
Taking all in place,
You move about__
You’re on the stage.
You are not
attitude or shame.

I am amazed by you.
Women amaze me all the time,
but your range is
lovingly cool.
You are hot.
You are the present tense.
“Please pass the future”

Call me editor, driver, driven__
Bold critique.
My friend,
I don’t care.
You always engage me
in tom-foolery.
Bringing you truth
down to the street.

Smashing good!
Lightly driven.
Heady squabbles
for your minions.

So there,
John the Squabbler
For I will name you here.

There is this thing called the Internet.
And I have been exposed.
For many years,
I,too, searched and scratched.
And found all the negative ways.
I feared every corner, nook, and cranny.

More paranoia, than I could poetic__
If I lived, lost….
I was sure to be
carried off to jail_
Fear was on my brain.
I was lost left and lonely.
This I know for truth.
I was led to believe__
my fear.

Let’s knit a scarf for
that dolphin.
Who would adopt this bird?
I was just being me.

What was coming?
I could imagine every fear.
I fed the maw
with all disease and lies.
I hurt my chances
Time did ebb and flow.
What did lay
down the road?
Who was driving me?

Skip, Skip, Throw that out,
I am editing here, Yeah,
Take it up here,
Can’t improve on perfection.
Left, but not reproved.

As low as low could be,
I could not claim my age.
Noone was claiming me.
On the outside__
I could be a
Teeny weenie saint.
In truth I
was a

Life, snip, jobs, money, cut,
Lose that__
Don’t forget__ regrets,
Lost opportunities
Rivers in the bends.

Like that one.
That’s the nut.
‘rivers in the bends’.

Coming too quickly
to the surface.
See Hunt.
Hunting sight.

Jobs on ships and planes,
Ditches in the earth.
Rolling on
Artic waves,
Frozen in the tundra.
Lives I can’t explain.
A slave to simple plans.
I’d caught the
Wander Ring.

Something saved me
from my self.
Split in Two
Torn asunder,
I was magically insane
Small, insignificant

I was not the missing piece.
I could not stop
the War.

I was just this guy,
who had to get__
got married
once more.
I engaged life
in a different way.
I gave everyone
Half a chance
and more.

I was steady.
I did my job.
I came home at night.
I kept
to myself.

What is this for:
I changed it up bit.
I think John is proof,
We can go back.
We can retrieve our selves.
We can love what we have lost.
We can prove our lives are real.
We can claim love
conquers all.

So to you John__
My Friend_
I say this
is real.

Here’s to John__
mystery guest).
When I first met you,
I thought you were a pest.

I’m going old school.
I wish this could
have been more.
Blue ribbon good.
But once more.
It is my best,
for right now.

Who was the guest?
Who could have guessed?

In closing,
I will only say,
I wish this could
have been more.
But knowing you__
has made everything
so much more.

Because__ when you write,
Your writing__
always says,
“I know”
in that special way.

I know your writing
is really you.
Thank you, John
for Everything.


|<   <<   >>   >|

by trust the rust (PM , CC ) on Wednesday March 28, 2007 @ 3:31 AM   (del)

Thanks, TR

I’ve never been compared to either St. Thomas More or a dolphin before. Or, for that matter, any saint or something that is not a fish but looks like one. Rants and raves are what I chiefly do. I was on a poetry blog some years back, and reading filled me with fear of negative criticism. The comments were so elitist, and so rife with classroom oneupmanship, that they had wandered far from their original purpose of being constructive. You could accurately say that they were deconstructive. This was typical of my college experience. Surrounded by young adults whose level of maturity was not much changed from 12 or 13 and professors who chose their occupation so that they could remain in that same state well into decrepitude, protected from the real world which may have challenged their assumed authority, the only activity that really went on there was deconstruction. There was little or no creativity that wasn’t belittled or whittled down. Here on the stream we are free of this, and in the real world where I read poetry wearing my respirator, it is deemed – if nothing else – creative; people actually want to hear it. That amazes me. It amazes me here that people actually want to read it. So, I believe in construction, not deconstruction. I believe in getting it written, not getting it right. I believe in rants. I believe in raves. And this is turning into a poetic creed, I suppose – but there it is.

While Keeley sincerely constructs the song Louis Prima joyfully and mischievously deconstructs it. As duet the resulting miraculous accidental meeting of discordant, perfect love is beyond my ability to critique it. Lord, it’s lovely. Let our poems suffer that accident daily, and let Sam blow some riffs over it

|<   <<   >>   >|

by John the Squabbler (PM , CC ) on Wednesday March 28, 2007 @ 6:38 AM


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s