One of the great pitfalls in poetry is when the writing implies the meaning, or infers the meaning, never saying anything directly. In fact, some people do this as well -- all their lives -- never saying anything directly, only saying things by implication rather than any sort of honest approach. What a way to risk a lack of communication. "What do you mean by that?" "I thought you meant..."

Art is the same way. Vague obscurity accomplishes very little. The viewer, the reader, the listener, needs to come forward but not analyze.

I've known people who say everything by implication, never saying anything directly. They say everything with sign language with hands behind their back.

Silent statues.

Traffic is fascinating. Everyday people get in their cars and zoom around -- as if it is a normal thing to do. No, it isn't.

Do you foggy days make you happy?

Most people I know don't want to talk about why any two people are together, what makes a couple a couple, or why not. You've seen large telephone cables, hundreds of multi-coded wires -- a good analogy how couples are -- some communication gets through, but not every single wire connects current. What chooses -- concious or unconcious? Who knows. Too many variables. But aren't there people that for some reason you automatically do not want to have anything to do with? But you can't say exactly why? Why is that? Like garlic. Like a Low Fat Deliciousness Turkey Melt. What is it that makes people think that what they put on those enriched bread rolls is actually real food? What is that tasteless yucky stuff shaped into shapes that resemble real food?

Bread is "enriched" because if the manufacturer doesn't add nutrients the USDA says it can't be marketed as food.

Do you love garlic?

Anyone can write, few can revise. I've heard about writers who resist revising anything. Especially poets. Revise, over-revise, who knows the answer. The higher the writing, the faster it can fall, and maybe that is why prose poetry is so popular now -- prose doesn't usually go very high; prose is mundane. Therefore far less a chance to fail. There is no such thing as prose poetry -- it is prose.

Just kidding around with the re-work of the photo, just rushing through it.

When I think about it, writing scribbly lines on paper seems an odd thing to do. Why do people write stories? Why not just state facts: best to do things right, respect all people, learn about life and love, watch out for people who try to fool you, don't buy things you don't need, -- no.... people want stories, you pull them along with suspended momentum, they believe, then they retain the thread of what wisdom is there, the time spent creates empathic memory, and lives are changed. Give people a story and they will love you. You know what I mean, people have interest in story tellers.

Zooming home yesterday, this image flashed visually in my head as I passed by the location. Today I went down and took the picture.

How often is it people don't follow up on their fleeting insights or visions. It takes a lifetime to listen to the voice inside you.

I have two regrets in life. One is that I did not take photos of all the places and people I knew years ago.

The picture is a Baltimore alley in Fells Point. I spent 30 years on such streets, in fact, I've been up and down this street several times this year and I live in Texas.

What's that saying? Life happens when you are busy doing other things.

The latest thought I heard is to take your age, divide it in half: does it really seem like the midpoint, the halfway mark of your life? And then take your age, divide it in half from the time you were 20: that is the half way age of your adult life. In other words, if you are 40, the halfway point would be 10 years, 20 years of adulthood, so to speak.

Hardly enough time for anyone to achieve but a few paltry goals. Hurry, there isn't much time. Hope people don't waste your time. Don't appear to be going someplace when you are not, just still, on the ground, get moldy.

If your art does not have a narrative, it isn't art. Few will agree with this.

A poet has an easy job. All a poet needs to do is to write what he feels about what he thinks. But is this what most poets do? Or do they usually write what they think about what they feel? Apply this question to any poem, and see what is there.

People, maybe including myself, tend to do things of which they are not exactly aware. No one wants to be in the situation in this picture, five days a week. That backup is actually about two miles long -- every day.

People write poetry without thinking -- they just write the best way they know how, and somehow expect poetry to come out of it. As if it is natural to them. They expect to be a poet without thinking about what they are doing with their art. I want to ask a poet, tell me how your work is advanced in comparison to what is being written, what are you discovering? What is your poetry about? What do you have to say? Are you actually stuck in traffic and don't know it?

My Days

My mind is bright as bumper chrome,
intensity few retinas can take.
My thoughts are loud, however reticent,
and tangible as stoplights in the sun.

However, days are highway lanes. My home
is blocked by smoggy traffic. Headlights break,
and maniacs can't stand magnificent
reflective brains, which, once cracked, are done.

I slow on curves to disinterest fate,
however, madmen smoke and fume and smash
with reckless speed, and the momentum, weight,
can easily claim an accidental crash.

There are no open roads. There is no joy
in driving fast. I am a backyard boy.

...... excerpt.....

Time past, candles were for the rich.

Now, the poor light candles to be rich.

Kissers, campers, castles with kings,

alters, grievers and gourmet kings

light candles with purpose at night.

Slimeballs too, burn the night.

........

Little itty bitty moon up there. After all, it is just you and the world.

Being bitten by ants or fleas? Sun in their eyes? Tearful joy at the wedding on the beach? Thoughts of their own time passing or that one love who got away?

A gloomy day in the suburbs. With Red Box, people can rent movies full of actors faking life and not talk to anyone, or get the movies mailed or sent via cable. Perfect.

A flea market in San Antonio. You like flea markets? Flea markets are odd shows of humanity. It is very much like watching humans in a fish bowl. What on earth are they so interested in? Is it part of the discovery need -- the endless need to discover, to search, explore, to gather objects to possess? All the things they buy end up back in the flea market or in the landfill, all used up, worn out, chewed on, broken, or maybe in some museum if rare or valuable. I bought a nice pair of Nikon binoculars. I need to know what is going on out there outside the fish bowl.

Discovery is always a great joy. We all want to discover something. Discovery is why people like art, why people enjoy making art. Any art is the art of discovery.

Today I discovered, when I was standing in the middle of an intersection of a two four-lane highway with my camera, stepping inbetween cars while I tried to get an angle before the light changed, that it didn't bother me if people thought it was strange that some guy was standing in the road with a camera. I felt like a kid, trying to capture something beautiful.

Where do you write? Here is my favorite place to write -- the kitchen table. The pen on the notebook is a Waterman fountain pen for which I paid $150 -- about 14 years ago. Also, I heard years ago, to write, just write the poem or story you would like to read. What you would like to read -- write it.