I had to write these words this morning in case someone, some poet of other, was looking over my mind and taking notes.

You see, it’s these brand new, fresh-laid ideas that are worth their weight in poetry readings, like deep litter chicken-houses producing better eggs, and the faith that something new must pop out of all this carefully wrapped brain food.

But, before I can present this morning’s idea, I must pass the raw kerschumpf through my image filters. I will probably get a disconsolate adjective worrying about its noun’s health, or maybe a manic verb destroying several imperfect pasts wearing classical oxygen masks. These aberrations must be removed and the remaining distillation refined until the word-to-image ratio obtains a consistency of thick sense soup. The kerschumpf, thus refined, can then be poured onto the paper in quantities sufficient for it to fill all the cracks.

This poses a few problems (irrelevant to the process in hand/keyboard, because I’ll only be able to solve them when I’m dead). They are: which came first, the image or the urge? Do images have secret hiding places, reluctant to smell the ink until I can seduce them out with some form that pleases their fetishes? Or does the urge generate infant images that must be bottle-fed with tepid emotions? And wherein the music of the molecules determining the way of it all?

I digress, for by now the filters are settling down the free association and exploding miracles are sprinkling hopeful words like pepper in my nostrils, so that, come what may, the lay of the escaping dream can find my keyboard.

But surely there is more important work to do. Shouldn’t I be pontificating to some avid bank managers or masturbating on a theme by Freud? I haven’t fed the fleas, the bog needs filling, the day is waiting for an answer and the prejudices need watering.

No, all that can wait, after all I’m attending to the needs of the ego, which hasn’t had a chance to feel important yet. That brand new idea feels just about filtered, imaged, emoted and ready. So, here it is:

My body is the shape of the sky surrounding me;

or

my words are the sound of the blank page receiving them;

or

fresh songs are the silence they break singing them;

or

inspirations are simply gaps between distractions.

And with that stimulation over, the course of the writing that had to be writ is grooved deep into today’s patterns. And the fleas are hungry for blood. And the prejudices are wilting. And bank managers are managing, just. I’ll just go ahead and attend to them.

1) Kerschumpf is the freshly woven stuff of life. (Stermholtz)

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