writing anything, writing nothing,
stories, blogs, essays, poems, lyrics,
articles, summaries, even bureaucratic reports,
why, that counts as "writing."
It doesn't have to be grand or beautiful,
doesn't have to be "properly" constructed,
hell, it might be borne from what's been torn down and rebuilt,
or shaved right off the top... shot right from the hip
free-association musings on traumatic memories
or pointless commentary,
maybe just well wishes on a birthday card,
or,
something like the hard geniuses,
Joyce or Fitzgerald,
written to put food on the table,
written out of personal pain,
because you hate the world,
and the fools that fill it's streets...
but a blogger,
is like a boxer,
punching hard into the next round,
desperate for the bell,
just trying to deliver the post,
I write the best I can,
I mean, who am I?
Bert Sugar?
5 comments:
that's how my Grub Street domicile appeared today. I was "drownded", as the Young Artist would have said, in a sea of paper, a perfect storm of protocols. But the blogger pays no heed to protocol. He is multigeneric, and polyvalent. There are no high genres, no low genres. There can be genius, or Grub Street.
Little ravor sharp ninja stars of wisdom flick out of your poems.
OO
Great post. I have lost my way from heaven but your writing makes me realize I'd give all hell for a basement.
You ain't Bert Sugar, you're the Dox. That's pretty darn good, as this post shows. Like it a lot. Your words. Your verse. They dance in a blog like a couple of flyweights. Your stories got a puncher's power like a fleeting jab, a combination of truths in a 15th round flourish, when fights went on to a sometimes deathly end.
c'amon bert sugar. crank one out on the ole underwood typewriter, please.
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