I want to write a good poem.
Possibly even a great poem.
A happy poem and not a sad poem.
I want to write a poem about giving and getting head.
Not good head, but spectacular head.
The kind of head you get on a true pint of Guinness.
It has been brought to my attention my poetry is not getting off the ground which I find surprising because I am always careful to attach tiny wings to each and every poem I write. Perhaps the wings are too tiny or maybe I just need to write shorter and more succinct poetry.
It has also been mentioned that my style has a kind of syrupy despair which cements my character. Now the crazy thing about this particular insight is I believe it was meant as an actual compliment which I find rather troubling and in fact fills me with some of that same syrupy despair.
It has also been brought to my attention that “the universe is the same place at the end of your pronouncement as it was at the beginning” and that “great poets would not let that happen.” To this line of criticism I have to say when I sit down to write (and when I am fully inspired and all or most of my sparkplugs are sparking) I give up control and let the writing and the words and the creative zeitgeist take me where it will. And this is not meant as an excuse, but instead as a lantern to be shined on one’s dark night of the soul.
I want to give it all I got and leave those Confederate Generals from Big Sur in the unassailable dust.
I have no problem with criticism when it is constructive and actually even when it is destructive as long as it’s in good taste. When someone though is only trying to bring me down a notch or two because they’re incapable of dealing with their own failing will when then I have a problem and will take issue with the “critique” spewed at me like vomit or ego stew.
Now some people will read this and think I am talking about Klecko when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. In our lives we’re lucky, actually blessed if we find one possibly two people who unconditionally have our backs and are good on their word and are an actual human being and not just some facsimile of what is passed off as a human being in these days and nights of The Walking Dead. None of us are perfect and those of us who think that they are better do a damn better job of convincing me and the rest of the world before they offer their two cents which is not even worth a plumb nickel in these days of The Last of the Mohicans.