City of Legends

I was sifting through the works I have been composing over the last few weeks. There’s a lot, a lot. An interesting melange of anger and fear and lust and love and pain and joy and hope and despair and the human condition. Some fairly well writ material, I am pleased to say. We’re creeping up towards 17,000 works in the catalog now. That is almost the equivalent of having written a poem a day, every day, since I was five years old.

Can I quit now?

No.

Poetry never deserts you, lies to you, betrays you. It never says one thing but does another. Poetry speaks the truth, without regard for agenda. I think of the scene in All That Jazz when Victoria Porter is up in Joe Gideon’s apartment and she asks him if he thinks she has what it takes to be a star. He clenches his fists because he can’t lie to her about THAT, and tells her no, realizing at the same time it probably will derail his whole seduction strategy.

She rationalizes it away and sleeps with him anyway. But he was willing to not sleep with her, in order to keep his integrity in the moment.

I’ve never lied to a protege, no matter how pretty or willing, and told her she was good when I knew she wasn’t. I have been fortunate enough to be involved with some remarkable writers. People with the power to shine like the sun and roar like the thunder. That few have lived up to the potential I have seen in them is no insult to or indictment of them or me, some choose a different path. I don’t think a barber or an office worker or an ice cream salesman is less than me, just different. There are days I would gladly trade my place in this life for theirs. Gladly surrender. Trade it all for one honest kiss.

Trust me. I believe in surrender, I just can’t find anyone to surrender to. I have tried, really tried. At least a few times. But I keep hearing that "I know what I said and I know what it sounded like, but it was said in the moment and I had my fingers crossed anyway and…" speech that tells me that poetry is still my only earnest mistress and master.

I am anxious to see more of the TVC2008 entries, anxious to see more of what people see in their heads when they hear my words. I am coming to pieces trying to finish the Evangelist CD. In part, because there are a half-dozen unfinished tracks I cannot complete for various reasons, either AWOL collaborators (Kitabu) or production delays (Aubergine) or a sense of incompleteness (gotterdamerung). This may be my last CD for a while and I want it right.

I hate shutting down peacat, especially with at least two external authors in line to publish through it, but I see no moral or ethical alternative. I am trying to feel my way through a complex labyrinth, but I am making headway.

Henry Plantagenet was right. But I am not quitting. Not on poetry. Not on life. Not on love. I can’t let the disease of other peoples’ complexities hobble me, taint me and take from me that which I require to do what I am required to do.

So, buckle in, people. And get ready for some Crazy Ivan turns that will reap the whirlwind. Daddy’s home.