from a while ago,

before blogspot decided to jam me up…

“Write

what you know about…”

                                                Mark Twain

Sound advice…? At one time, perhaps. The unfortunate part of this epitaph, most people know nothing or of nothing that would interest others—especially readers. We are a society of shallow gatherers and regurgitates, living vicariously through electronic media, sitting on our couch-fat-asses vainly attempting to mimic, absorb the energy of the real, the few doers and adventurers. Fooling ourselves into thinking, we are accomplishing something…

I am not a blues person. I simply have not had to suffer what it takes to be truly “blues.” Yes, I’ve been to Billie Pearl’s, wailed and sung along with B.B King, John Lee Hooker, Janis the Pearl and the greats, gone without meals, ridden the rails, slept in stinking eau d’ nil trash bins out of the rain and pinch of the police, but I haven’t achieved that status of being able to say “I know the blues…” and, besides, I don’t play a guit’box or harmonica worth a damn.

Sipping a little Old No. 7, kicking back and watching segments of PBS’s slick money-drive promos: seeing the true “blues men”. Astounding. Moving. Men walking the walk. And then one has to sit though the technical guitar artistry of Joe Bonammasa—man can that dude wail an axe. His strummin’, goosebump city. But he’s a mimic, he’s got no soul no real blues. Too white- bread, enabled, over-produced, doughboy soft, no real-deal hard-times history behind him, wouldn’t say “shit” if he had a mouthful. Can you dig what I’m sayin’?

So, if you’re going to write authentically, pick something you truly know of. A readership can sniff assumed persona faster than a weasel smells blood. It may be a narrow spectrum of writing themes for the time being. Don’t worry. Go out and live life a little. Go hit the road (even in a WindStream with aunt Margie and the cat if you must.) Take some day labor jobs down on the dock. Hang out in the park with the old checker players and winos (you don’t have to brown-bag it with them) if that’s your thrust in writing. Chillin’ a few hours in the bus or train station will be a note taking eye-opener. A few days in nature’s grandeur swatting mosquitoes and dodging asshole hunters—absorbing what’s left of the special essence of the forest. Observe. Be purposeful. Let essence soak all the way in. Keep lots of journal notes—time’s a comin’ you will use’em. Promise.

   You may find out, your own too-shallow today story, truly isn’t that interesting. But wait. There’s a whole other world out there that needs its story told too. Your personal story and reservoir will grow full with time…

Patience, grasshopper.

Write well, Max tdc

Okay—it’s been so long…

(gotta few quick jabs right away on that last…)

and I did have to go Mountain Dew raving mad again; (little sorry ‘bout that) so, thought I’d try and find an example of a narrative (personal) type “poem” to cement the premise of today’s last scribble.

   It is possible to express one’s grief, angst, deep-secret private desires in a manner which may interest the broadest spectrum of your selected audience.

Please bear with…

from a friend who lives in the Rockies (prefers hiding out in the woods with the kritters away from the confederacy of dunces (apologies, O’toole)

July 14, 2015 11:59 UTC

Idaho Springs easy-on-easy-off ramp

from the Colorado straight-thru interstate

right there   a McDonalds fast food restaurant

twenty-four hour with drive-window service.

Inside-line waiting for my double cheeseburger

extra cheese   extra pickles   hold the o’—

medium Coke and medium fries for to go.

Clean   appropriately polished   sparkled

wiped-down   swept up  attended by

friendly servers from a multitude of nationalities

and they all speak understandable American—

not just English   but the real-deal Am-er-i-can.

How great does that get…

I let my mind wander as the Hwy noise roars by—

It takes the New Horizons space craft

over six-and-a-half years

to travel from Earth to Pluto

that cold dark-void planet-non-planet

where it will then stream by   out—out

beyond the Kuiper Belt  to where only NASA knows.

Electronic radio transmissions from

this blue speck planet of ours   to Pluto and back

takes nine-hours six minutes and twenty seconds…

So   now   why in the heck

is my burger order taking over

—let’s see—

all of fifty-four seconds   already…

Keep scribblin’…Max tdc

Long time…yes, it has been…

But why keep running in circles waiving one’s arms trying to suggest, hint, beg, plead and improve a situation—when there is no perceivable audience. And this ol’ scrounge cat’s goal in life is not to placate the droolers.’Cause somewhere out there are creative scribblers—hiding I ‘spose—probably scratching their chins over the same sad state of affairs. Wannabe writers (for the most part) just seem, not, to care about self-improvement and dissemination of a substantial message. Do they know how, or have they even been steered towards the basics of this simple craft refinement?

Unfortunately, we have noticed; those writers who indeed, do, try to improve their craft; writers who in truth accept their shortcomings, quietly scraping away at the rough edges polishing attempting to create accessible, enjoyable or thought provoking verse—they have apparently resigned themselves to simply letting the vacuous promoter sad-sacks take the stands, mouthing their bull-horn “I are a poet” anthem.

Well, this is not enlightening to any who’d wish to improve…

So, is there something positive to impart…Let’s try. Perhaps a fairly un-editorialized (my Aunt Tillie’s afgan “un-edited!”)  anecdote might suffice—

the Example:   Into the Cheap Seats van-office comes a recently unsolicited submission; from a person (who we immediately took heart with) a writer trying to establish: a little lost, and who probably has not reviewed our draconian guidelines—which are not that quite rigid, as our usual writers have figured out.

As heartless-bastard editors we notice right-off line: the subbing writer’s self-absorbed theme, content and construction. Seemingly, a person in distress. Unfortunately, we are not sociologists or qualified care givers—but one or two of us still have hearts.

   Being semi-curious—did an inter-mess search for this writer. Not only does this writer, write loosely constructed, semi-focused woe-is-me, it seems they have wrapped their actual life around distress and disillusion Supposedly from past experience(s). Going so far as to inter-mess promote this history. Ok. fine. So you perceive your life as a pile of manure—who doesn’t occasionally feel cow-piled upon. Do you want to have a real audience? A real-deal literary following? Do you want to spread quality accepted, accessible verse? Then. Get over-it!

   Truly, there are few—really, very few who want your dismal gray day raining on their attempts at their normalcy. Readers-want-escape!

the Hidden Hint: True, a poem must start from within, and within does include those pesky demons and horrid wee transgressions against us. Heck. I have a splinter in my paw today—so, I cannot possibly give a crap about your dear friend’s ashes tipping over in the wind at the funeral…or—could I? Life really can be interesting if given half-a-chance—

work the unusual, the observational angle.

When I’ve had about enough of this down-in-the-mouth-woe-is-me  I’m out of a job, my wife’s a tramp, my best friend has cancer, and the dog has died; someone please commiserate with me— stuff—I resort to ol’ Nebraska Ted. Yes, by the elitist literati, he may be considered a bit corny, and not much more accepted than was the time-style of Robert Service. But Ted Kooser has done a couple of recent stints as the US Poet Laureate —and that ain’t no sack of horse fritters! And Ted’s work is reality. No, big-long-hairy-dog explanations (he believes in show not tell! let the readership draw their own considerations) short, to the point, easily digestible and enjoyable down-to-earth observational reality— without the dismal crud.

   How about, someone, trying on a pair of Ted Kooser glasses? The examination of life (rural yes—but what of your story—doesn’t have to be pastoral.) But please, outside of your self-perceived weeping-self.

…ahh. Yes. Time for more Mtn. Dew and another sack of hate mail.

Write with direction, clarity, tenacity and concern for your audience—Max tdc

Non-Editorializing

in “Poem Club”

Fox News, CNN, Jim Bob’s Manure and Chicken Plucking Farm Report—you cannot get away from the heaps and heaps of weeping, sobbing and generalized all around bubblegum brained babbling in content today. What in the hell has happened to good-ol’ persona removed reporting?!

As mentioned just recently; no one gives a furry rat’s behind, what your feelings and comments are. Just report the flippin’ story; concentrating on getting your details right, your butchering of the English language to a minimum. It’s “pled” not “pleaded” for cryin’ out friggin’ loud! And anyone who respects this fading language (“American” not really “English” any longer…thank gawd!) anyone who cares will agree. And I don’t give a r.f.a. what your idiot English teacher sez you’re allowed to degenerate tense down into. It’s still, “pled”!

Sorry for the segue…

When constructing a “poem,” one will notice, present tense seems to provide the most energy and draw the reader along far better than past tense. A good way to work into present tense is to utilize historic present tense (aka Homeric present-tense.) Most of the really fine journalist/literature authors utilize historic p.t.

   And even more evident in the more finely distilled wines—lack of a personal presence. The narrator does not include themselves in the scene.

Whenever possible, no first person usage. (First rule of “poem club.”)

   The Second rule of “poem club”: keep your opinions to yourself. No one wants to hear (have a piece ruined by) your input. Leave out anything, any goop that smacks of, I, me, mine, I believe, oh my gawd, such carnage, such action, this is horrifying,  such calm, oh the blood and the gore…, it was a beautiful sunny morning, god bless them, they lived happily ever after, etc. etc. Leave this sort of Thumper-and-Bambi tripe to Disney and the news bobble-heads and their cadre of apparently under-educated prompt writers.

   Consider the notable news commentators; Walter Cronkite, Charlie Rose, the Walter Winchells, their usual persona detachment from the story. Their professionalism. Not that they weren’t (aren’t) emotionally invested—they just stick to getting the facts across in an engaging manner and let the listener determine the emotional value and investment they wish to undertake for themselves. Telling readers what they should think and feel—wow! how grade-school is this. Show, not tell…

   All of these types of emotions and opinions are quite easily described within the confines of the story within the “poem” in a perfectly detached manner. And if they can’t be encapsulated in the verse, guess what? they’re not needed.

Mas Mtn. Dew,  Max tdc