“For a French Broom”
Vantaa, Finland, March, 2012
For David Meltzer
Don’t write poetry about poetry. It shows a real lack of imagination. It is just defense for not being bright enough. Not having a life where you went and got arrested in the Czech Republic. One of the more decent places, by the way, because it was never really a part of the Evil Block, more like an occasionally occupied Satellite. A place of Velvet Revolutions. My God, two security men accompanied this long haired kid back to America who had been drunken and obscene in public, and he wrote the poem on the plane, according to Ginsberg. Things could have gone far worse for this idle youth dancing around a May Pole.
May Pole. Now there’s an image straight out of DH Laurence. Red turgid towers. But I digress, am bitter because I am one of those that lack imagination. I am like the fox if he’d reached that vine, was unsatisfied with knowing the truth, so served the sour grapes to others.
Writing poetry about writing poetry is making an apology for that haiku you cannot write. Because you sit about in the coffee shop – a trendy elitist activity for the idle rich because they have the time and money to spend five Euros a cup – looking for ideas and not finding any. What you end up doing is writing about sitting around with a pen in your hand and a blank page in front of you, thinking about black coffee like ink, because you stir your hot drink with the end of your pen sometimes and are worried about the ink exploding into your mug. Stuff like that.