no one was there

Well, I know I didn't write about any poems that I read yesterday but I figured I already broke my cardinal rule concerning the amount of poems from each poet I would read. I also started this whole thing off on the wrong foot by starting in the middle of the month and not planning ahead. Planning is what begins and ends this crazy, muddled up world we live in right? I hope I learned my lesson about preparedness last year when I tried to tend a community garden plot but did little to no advanced scheduling or research and ended the harvest with a paltry yield.

I have come to understand this as a very important month. A month that holds two of my brothers' birthdays, my other brother's college graduation, and a two-fer appreciation month. Not only is it National Poetry Month (the muse behind my poetry writings) it is also Jazz Appreciation Month. So in the spirit of both these I shall regale you with an unsolicited, impromptu poem on the subject of jazz.

gather and push from this side to the back
buckle and jive so full
so much so
capacity's sound jolted to the not yet arrived

Well that is all I could muster. I hope both poetry and jazz feel appreciated. For my part I tried my darnedest.

brandon

too comfortable for closeness

A writing community would be nice. Last night Honey Bee played at a local store called Pulp which specializes in art/paper products. Mostly it has quite beautiful greeting cards and gift wrap. The event was a slightly haphazard gathering of some essayists, musicians, and a poet, I think. If there was a poet, which I believe I heard there was supposed to be, he or she must have read while Melissa and I were getting pizza. But still, poet or no poet, it was a special evening. It certainly fomented a discontentment in my belly. I have a tiny reserve of unfinished stories I am trying to complete. All fiction, all short, and all with endings that are terribly elusive to me. I sketch and outline and jot and write but feel despondent for want of a community of critics and peers.

I feel envious of Melissa at times. She has a group of young writers built-in to her creative writing program at school. I too had this once. I was in writing classes in college and I squandered so many opportunities for focused composition and critique. I was never fully prepared for the workshops. I pounded out half-conceived stories or poems that only survived because they were so convoluted they were barely evaluable. Oddball twists or indecipherable meaning are my most useful crutches. Luckily for me, I can usually slide by disguising it as postmodern writing.

And I promise, there is supposed to be meaning in what I write. I just have the darndest time conveying it. That is why I want people to help me exhume the purpose I know is...just...right...there...if I...could only...ugh...reach it