advisory

mr. rychewlski doesn't inspire me. he motivates me. it's what he gives me that does all the inspiring. he has good taste.
is motivation built in inspring?
I don't know, but both are happening here.

mo·ti·va·tion  

/ˌmōtəˈvāSHən/

Noun The reason or reasons one has for acting or behaving in a particular way. The general desire or willingness of someone to do something.

 

in·spired  

/inˈspī(ə)rd/

Adjective Of extraordinary quality, as if arising from some external creative impulse. (of a person) Exhibiting such a creative impulse in the activity specified:

i read this:

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked

We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings

Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes

Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this

The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder

We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground

The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay

And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard

Born out of that.

The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter

note to self: follow psuedobukowski.blogspot.com

his response:
What Language Did
Eavan Boland
The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather
of an early spring and the shallow tips
of washed-out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.
I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply
in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.
A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed:
a presence. Suddenly. In the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,
was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantelpieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.
Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,
and Cassiopeia trapped: stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her glittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.
And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,
was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts printed with the salt of it and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.
I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air -
did I imagine it? – a voice was saying:
This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where
we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.
We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.
Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.

Needless to say, I loved it. And I'm not the kind of person that loves poem just because its "the thing to do" or because it's "expected of me". If I don't like a poem you love, I will tell you. I really love this poem.

There are so many ways to say one thing. So many ways of bringing something to life.
Every time someone starts to read, I think of a painting being made. With each word, a brush stroke.
By the end of poem, someone has painted what they were feeling/what they see/what they know/anything. It's wonderful. It fills me with pleasure. When I read Bukowski, I feel like I'm taking a bite of gourmet food. Yum.

I'm going to accomplish something great guys. I'm taking the route with stickers plastered on the trees and where the cars walk on sidewalks and we skip and twirl for no reason other than we can on the streets.I don't know what I'll do yet, but I know when I do, I will immerse myself in that work whole-heartingly. I'm excited, even though I don't know exactly what I'm excited about.
I'm going to major in two things. Dual personality here. But trust me, they're going to compliment each other and ahhh ^-^.
I'm going to struggle, but it's going to be fun.

Bukowski can probably tell it before than I could:

Roll the Dice

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by Charles Bukowski

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

 

 

 

I used to hate poetry. Now I love it.