13 to 45, those turbulent teen years.A Poem by h d e rushin
.............and to include the bicyclic ring system of fused organic and inorganic molucules. More pteridophyte than human, having roots, stems and leaves but lacking flowers and seeds. A fern, but sentimental. Can talk loud but refuse to understand that love is never a suicidal song. That poetry is not the stuff of the psychologically wounded homosexual, and being wierd is not an excuse for being mistrusted.
That sometimes you have to, like Tony Hoagland, let the blood flow, catch the good tradgedy between your teeth, have, if absolutely necessary, complaints with the world; no one cares how blue the storytelling, no more than carrying photos of buildings and street corners on your smart phone, matters.
I use to walk down Pennsylvania St. carrying a large radio on my shoulder with the sound turned all the way up as if the world should see, not hear. Until I realized that you just cant be vulnerable, at least, not if you know stuff. And after Beethoven and the want and wilderness of Coletrane there is no vulnerability in art.
No absolute passion like a piano sonata that you can sit in front of, at any age, and dream to. © 2013 h d e rushinReviews
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Added on August 16, 2013Last Updated on August 16, 2013 Author
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