Confusion or Perception

Liberating myself from mental slavery,as only myself can free my mind,I meditate on the lives of poet saints,judging them by their actions not by their intentions. Poetry seems to have a mortality rate to match rock music. I've come to the conclusion that if I'd been a poet when younger,instead of a thief,I would not have lived long enough to receive the prison sentence, which arguably saved my life and that character trait which drove me over the counter with a shotgun would have written FIN to my story a lot earlier than it's going to.

I do miss one thing from those days though,the passion I felt,that everything I did mattered,it was literally life or death. If my life and/or poetry is to mean anything,they can be no seperation between what I am and what I do. I don't try to be a poet,I am a poet.

This raises the question,that if my ego is sufficient to know,not believe,know that I am a poet,why write this blog,pay someone to work on a website,plan to publish a collection? Do I need praise/condemnation to re-inforce my self image? If I keep my poetry to myself,am I still a poet or just a self-indulgent poseur masturbating with ink?

Maxwell Jung lived in a cabin in the woods,Bob Kaufman took a vow of silence,Rimbaud stopped at 19 and went to Africa,Jacques Prevel got TB,Georg Trakl killed himself and Maxwell Bodenheim was murdered. Poeta Vagante?

For other hardcore mf'ers http://www.badassoftheweek.com/.

BLUES HERMIT BOOGIE
The way is marked
by a dusty path.
posts stand guard,
gate rots on its hinges.

Behind trees
no forester would touch,
a hut which looks derelict and deserted;
here I live.

A clear lake for fish and bathing,
wood for fire and a little earth to till.
Creatures of the forest are my neighbours,
there's a village nearby but no-one bothers me.

Winters are cold and long,
spring ripe with promise,
summer tastes of strawberries,
autumn tells me it's time to gather in the last of the harvest.

I write poems on leaves
which the winds scatter to the four corners.
It also carries the notes of my harmonica,
I play the Blues Hermit Boogie.

I hear little of my friends,
they're still in the world
and I don't do well there.
I have space for a guest.

Ii start my day with pray and meditation,
a little yoga for the body
and read the words of sages for my soul.
The rest of the day I do what needs to be done.

In the evening,
I eat simple food and drink tea.
I play a little and write a few words,
I finish with pray and meditation.

My name is mostly forgotten and rarely spoken,
I live below the world's radar.
beyond praise and condemnation,
my own and others.

Spices taste bitter on the tongue and silk makes me itch.
Noise and colours deafen and blind me.
Everything costs more than the label says,
let others run in the ratrace for I cannot find my shoes