Friday, March 27, 2009

march 27th, 2009

bathtub blues

The poem opens with a nightmare, an astonishing recreation of nothingness. This is only an exercise in word play, an orgy of lavish syllables and dense sentences. I wish I had a bathtub.  

I wish I had a tub I could fill to the brim with bubbles. I miss disrobing and cautiously stepping into a bath of lava water. Right big toe was always the courageous penguin, leading an army of tuxedos into an infested warzone.  

The crippling dusk exfoliated the cuckoo’s nest, but no one seem to notice, or better yet, care. There were bums selling camcorders for a nickel down the street but people had places to be, sights to see, greasy food to consume. The city was buzzing with activity. The air was polluted with wonder. The beast hid beneath the shadows in defeated isolation.  

Shots of minimalism render me helpless as the aardvark gnaws at my at my toe nails. He pauses for a moment and cocks his head towards the clouds. Continue I say. He does. His obedience is admirable. His choice of attire, on the other hand, is an embarrassment. I lay back and close my eyes. The sun beats down on my chest, sizzling the tip of each piece of hair. I put my shades back and try to think over the sound of clipping. I am starting to suspect Hamlet is getting restless. He is getting smarter every day.

I fear the vastness of the ocean, the incredible magnitude of everything it supports, the creatures we know so little about and the ones we will never even discover. The concept of limited life is bizarre beyond comprehension. The unknown too often separates people fighting for the same thing.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

march 26th, 2009

In a weird way this new site teases me to write more opinionated blogs and recommendations, but with the help of another, I realized I cannot do that.  So, from now on, I'm only going to post new pieces of writing, updates on my writing, and possibly older poems I feel like posting again.  I don't know why I initially wanted to change my formula.  I don't want to be a blogger, I just want a place to post my poetry.  Easton Ellis says it quite nicely here:

“I'm not a big believer in disciplined writers.  What does discipline mean?  The writer who forces himself to sit down and write for seven hours every day might be wasting those seven hours if he's not in the mood and doesn't feel the juice.  I don't think discipline equals creativity.”

Thank you Bret.  Goodnight.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

I have more to say than I thought

Check out this awesome blog:

In my quest for a book cover I came across this artist; Dana Bean.  There's a lot to like here.

This dude is also awesome:

Drink this wine, it's fucking amazing:

Listen to comedian Steven Wright.  One of his many hilarious albums:

Monday, March 23, 2009

hello hello

Welcome to my new blog page, I'm glad you could make it.  My name is Rupert Pupkin and I write in order to stay sane.  I will post my writing on this blog and I hope you enjoy it.  I have no new poems to share, so I will start off this new beginning with an older poem, one I wrote a few years back listening to John Coltrane's "Acknowledgment."  It is one of my favorites and it always brings back memories of happiness and depression.  Thanks for checking in, let's make this a habit.  Cheers.


Slow start to the day.  Black coffee and a bowl of tangerine slices.  Oatmeal?  Not this morning I said to myself.  And as I cracked my shoulders and outstretched my arms... she came to mind and suddenly I was dancing in an empty ballroom.  Her majestic dress throwing shadows upon the wall, but I was covered-- gone.  Back at the kitchen table I found myself dropping a cube of sugar into the caffeinated charcoal abyss.  Watching the rippling after-effect I felt strapped to the chair as the slices of tangerine played hopscotch on my rumbling stomach.