(Skip intro and ramble if you just want the poem) A cool post from Scriggler (@iScriggle). I had a very strange and interesting and intriguing dream about the I just remembered now, not going to go into it though. A lot of things but it involved their computer systems and meshings or invasions between them and deoxy.org and various governments or some shit. And they say they tweet almost everything posted to their 50,000 followers which netted me about 300 views both times. Haven’t checked in to see if they’re still rising. I send them a tweet asking that my post be promoted just in case it’s missed or passed over. Took them 4 or 5 days to get to it after I posted “As You Disintegrate” which btw at the last minute I decided must go in the current book. And as I think I said, I’m planning to publish to paper when I learn to navigate createspace.com (an Amazon company) (A fairly successful author (although it is far from his primary income) tells me Amazon actually does a pretty good job of promoting createspace and kindle books, and I guess he knows his shit) (I guess that means there are discounts for bookstores or something, cuz if there were only one price you wouldn’t be able to sell so easily above the Amazon price for one. I dunno I guess people (customers) in bookstores wouldn’t know they could get it from createspace? yeah that makes sense). Dude also says a big chunk of his income comes from book design going into createspace and he contracts out to families and stuff and does cons…. Ian McLeod is pretty awesome. I have read two thirds Bilge Pump of a Turgid Mind (poems). It is more challenging and interesting than the commercial poetry book my parents got me for Christmas. I have had to go slower and most of it works with topics that interest me… (The Christmas book is actually pretty good, though, Nick Flynn, My Feelings, significant amount of shit about death in it). And I have read a big chunk of Thirty Minutes More Or Less chapter 14 of Ian’s (wait it has a different name, I dont know if he sent me someone elses book or thats a pseudonym, I think its a pseudonym Joshua Lee Andrew Jones) The Excess Road, and it is, to put it bluntly, awesome! We have had some very fruitful exchanges on marketing and publicity (well not really publicity, I’ll have to send him a link to Publicize Your Book! recommended by Carmichael’s Books for anyone who participates in their consignment program. I read a lot of it before I got desperate and sold it for beer, and it is really good. (Sigh, I am a writer with no books. I sold them all. Well, I have like maybe twenty but half of those are things I can’t sell and have no interest in reading. Hoping paypal to email@example.com and monthly recurring donations to patreon.com/lostinmist will start rolling in when the first 70 postcards in my 1000 postcard campaign arrive at their targets tomorrow. May be too optimistic. We’ll see. Perhaps instead of doing Louisville I should be mailing to poets and poetry magazines. But I got the “Unity” card (only drew one this time, I swear) in the Faeries Oracle when I drew a card to see if it would be good to target San Francisco next after Louisville. I suppose I can just mail them to whoever I can find who I feel like in the moment rather than stick to any set plan… but some must go to poetry stuff and some to san Francisco. I sent one to Mayor Fischer, which I believe he will see and dig, but have so far elected not to send one to Obama or our new dickbag governor Bevin. Fly under the radar, I suppose, no? New landing page at psychicfuguestudio.net later tonight (it’s next up unless I meditate first, but in this moment, I am feeling totally ready for web design… a rare feeling unless I’ve been sober a couple weeks, so I guess I’ll hit it) maybe I’ll take out some ads… I believe this is the correct Ian McLeod http://ianmcleod.com/ but he doesn’t appear to advertise his books on his site; how odd!
A playful study on the characteristics and values of loneliness.
If loneliness had a flavor,
it would be like the taste of paper . . .
referring back to the days in grade-school,
when consuming paper
was a more likely occurrence.
Milking from those memories,
the recall of pulpy spit-wads and
the “not-entirely-offensive-yet-savagely-unappealing” flavor –
but lonliness would not carry so much the certain and confident character
of dime-store, college-ruled notebook stock,
lacking that level of definitive identity.
If lonliness had a flavor,
and it tasted like paper,
it would carry the musk and frailty of an old paperback,
yellowed and pungent with the nuance of time and use,
reminiscent of cookie dough, but without the sweet . . .
or anything else really “cookie-ish”
save for the soft top-note,
a bit musty and almost familiar,
nearly comforting at first,
growing more daunting and unfullfilling
in the lengthening of its presence
on the palate.
If lonliness were a guest at your door,
it would be a face familiar . . .
one you had almost forgotten about altogether
and one whom . . .
when upon spying through the peephole,
you would quietly mouth the word “damn”
and wish you could reverse time
for just 5 mere seconds
to resist the cheerful “just a minute!”
you offered at the call of the bell . . .
betraying your option of feigned absence.
And you would exhale long . . . and slow . . .
and brace yourself before opening the latch . . .
reluctantly welcoming and all-the-while wondering
how long this visit would last . . .
fighting the urge to keep gazing at your watch
forcing the conversation,
wishing you really had something else to do
and wondering what it was you did,
which wrought upon you this karma.
If lonliness had a sound,
it would be voice of a solitary violin,
the wanton bow and resin of sorrow
dragging across the threads of unrequieted desire
resonating the throat of sadness,
and echoing the hallowed empty halls
of absence and desolation . . .
still . .
and low . . .
offering no hint of resolve or pause.
But it has no flavor,
no face and no song.
It is in its essence the absence of something,
unnamed, unknown, unseen and unheard,
and still universally understood,
and effectively uniting us,
to make the rain taste sweeter than spit-wads,
obligations more meaningful and important,
and sad songs somehow lighter.