I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


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Thursday, May 9, 2019

Poets


May 9, 1974  (I was 29)

Poets
are people who
have something to say
and therein lies the pain
of one who has a method

If the medium is the massage*
the message will be
delusion fear hypocrisy
and situations beyond our control

Machines aren’t that neat
We ought to do more
than imitate the light that sparks
when plug
meets receptacle

Moog
makes every sound
from arp to zap
for no other reason than keyboard and switch
and we’re always in the backroom
rewiring a future

   *the spelling is correct; See Marshall McLuan
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