Archive
08/14/08 - (2)
Spilling the Beans The other night or five or ten ago, I heard the raspy-voiced, world-weary Tom Waits Submitting to an interview about his album Real Gone,
Dropping a bomb on my heading-home-to-a-poem head, By stating the matter-of-fact raison d'être For his entire career's oeuvre,
When he answered a question, as candidly as he could, Regarding how he keeps writing songs: "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."
Just then, after he gave that disturbing answer, I was absolutely certain, to my very artistic core, That I understood what it is that makes me what I am.
How can I tell you? How do I put it into the fewest words possible? Were my life to be missing its bottomless bottle of wine,
There'd be no lines of free-verse poetry Exploding from my every pore, morning, noon, and night, And without the poetry, I don't know if I'd still be breathing.
In all honesty, if I couldn't write, word-chime, versify, I'm certain I'd have submitted, long ago, To an icepick behind my eye, into my frontal lobes.
OK. So I spill the beans, sheepishly confess That inebriation is the key to my creativity. Although each new poem may be one big rip-roaring drunk,
It's still the only place I call home, for that moment, The home I carry on my back, that day or night, To keep from losing the timeless location of my soul.
08/14/08 - (2)
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