It has been too long since I’ve written something without a purpose. I so often used to write just to write, for the joy of it...
The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does isn’t pursuant to his ultimate goal, which isn’t really his anyway. It’s just something he’s found himself stuck to, like a freak second head you’re forced to converse with and for which you then become too attached to destroy. The poet makes every effort to deceive himself, anything to convince his ego that it’s okay to think about something
What does one say when one sits down to write? He could speak of the sound of somebody outside wheeling the big plastic garbage can to the curb, or cars going down the road, or planes across the sky, or of his incandescent thoughts dancing through his skull. He could speak of everything wrong or of everything right. He could speak his mind or pretend to speak somebody else’s. He could piss and moan—and he undoubtedly will—but of all the things one could say when one sits down