/ proesy

...
I am somewhat disheartened today reading through the old archives, the exhortations against this poetry in prose that sustained me through my years of Rimbaud and Verlaine, because there is not enough regulation, I suppose, or structure, and being a 12 year old in the body of someone much, much, much and such older, rules build character and stamina and all the other ingredients so vital to the long, dull life of the poet. But I am too limited in how I see the world. When I write, I have to acknowledge that I am subservient to the images before the words. I could never write what I have not seen, or cannot imagine. When I run, I remember the stones and the grass as they passed beneath my feet, and the thought of rearranging them so that they might later in my memory follow a specific theme, adhere to a recognized structure, obey an acceptable meter, good fucking god, discipline is just not in my nature.

I laugh, imagine that I pass some likely tableau, stop, turn around and roll up my pants legs and get down in the creek and move the earth, because later I will want to write about this river BED, but seeing only leaves of yellow, I am forced to find one that's RED. Later, I wonder if I can do this with people. Darling, your eyes are so very BRIGHT. Could you perhaps back up an inch, into the LIGHT?

I know that it is not quite so simple, but fuck, goddamn and hell almighty, just try and tell me what it is I am supposed to admire, whether women or words, and christ, fuck and shit and bite me, I will be upstream from that creek of yours sending you water too warm to concentrate on form.