Muses by Aaron Kerley

-I don’t fuck much with the past, but I fuck plenty with the future. - Patti Smith

I want notions of literature. That initial alchemy. There was the word…in the beginning.

Music but also more reading. The literate rock n’ of the skin. The Poet must be allowed Un Saison en Enfer, a molting of the skin. When I read of influential things, what came in early, the soul, the Poet, as a con, the death not sold to God: I am the sun. I desire too, now, the street. Swoop swoop.

As with any formal writing instruction you swoop, swoop, oh if when you shave the trees they are calling after you. It grows from increasingly unsatisfying academic writing, for a number is our veil, but I couldn't rock n roll. The lonely existence of formal writing instruction… Gave up on writing once for I thought, the precedent in these witnessed classes - Idiots rule. All that writing for a number. Qualify a spell? So I’d rather be a kite in these classes, now above. A voice, but be youth, once again pop and reply pop and my mind splits open. I want to be the smog of important things, arcane things…a seduction of secrets, a painter of startling discoveries, discoveries of precedent of all kinds, discoveries of images that move me… It is the synergy word man, now, thank you. The musing is everything, not just a must at fifteen or sixteen, but a function of life. The Word.

People say her artists would, of course, be compulsively documenting visions. Like her belly button is an American, sex and damnation, like Detroit steel, under a t-shirt, pumping red white blue blood to every part of the earth. I'm an American who fell in love with the whore. I tasted what she'd rock n roll, really pouring myself in the world that flicker flies like a movie…her world. Twilight corner of the mind under streetlights of longing. I trade in inspiration. She wants souls, Christian soldiers, the currency of failure. Entropy. Full spectrum-I, E, O, vowels of color. Sold myself to God.

Curtains laced with diamonds of being. Honey bears writing on a scroll of ancient lettuce. Investigations of literate rock, years, beginnings on a leash, musing with no guilt. The grand tradition of disenfranchised youth, yet woven pleasant designs in heart skin whose lights were violet. Writing was my thing the in world that flew. Real magic. The best inside is the scalp book, tome of the brain, once again it, my mind split open, and the words came running out of my eyes. I remember Baudelaire being near Reed lyrics….the Poet as seer. Litanies. Days with my secret God.

And well, now, you know things; the reading has an ornamental veil fluttering in
the air but inherently tied to the end works, the selected letters, the symbols, the first
attempts at sixteen. When I read the chemical darkroom, the off switch, I began, for you,
and grew until it meant her a wounded soul, Rimbaud. For good or arcane things... Duality
of Apollo and Dionysus; too, is artsoul. Alchemy, word magic, a real paint…

I wanted to be the lies beneath this netting of Andy's Chest. I have been, for good
or bad, dear, for you gave my meaningless sixteen- I am an American; destroyed, and
turned inward to notions of literature. I felt formative writing was my way out, the skin I
wanted. Forming. Be anything in thought. And all the Poets attain death with the
missionaries loose and roaming the countryside ravenous… turn inward to my visions,
notions, manifestos. I have always been nine years old, ninety years old and a canvas of
the lowly … Jackpot. The belly of French poetry. Time spread out a table of images,
constructions, no order. No order. March of history a parade of fools and cowards. Blind.
Enough! Turn outward. Seer, seer, sees everything all at once. Word magic, kabbalah,
vampire that feeds on facts and assumptions, drain them, straw men of piety, hangers of
scarecrows on Calvary, I see. I see…

I am the sun. Thaw the Frost, evaporating sentimental walls, melting ice cap
mountains, the cheap puberty, ego, lying poets until it reaches the all of all…
presto…elevation, the end of your child and the spoiled retarded poetry heart! Flight
over your highways of deceit. Now a hairy minded kind that comes by howling, loose.
Moma. Dada. For what I found to be your skin is scar, scared, sacred. Musing the inherent
in these disciplines came with the early capital sins! This musing must be tied to the end
collage. I awake.

I have not sold myself to a movie, or her to the sun, for she is not mine to sell. I am
no pimp, and we are the same. Our soul, alas, is taken with film classes, viewed paintings,
utilized by the writer… the word man, a poetic lyric, quite again tied to the end of time,
abstract expressionism, portraiture, excessive poetry. Was it her mouth, which read it…
my today as incantation, yesterday as tomorrow, these years later… crazy… my beard,
took to flowing white, point this way, invisible but in the reflection eyes that stare back
through the fog? Or was it me? I feel the moved me, open to the sins undercover eternity
on the edge of a razor full of beards. I have always been and will always be. Knower
of things. Until the word. Ends. Oh baby, Rock rock.