I cannot be consoled

                                              
                                                
and so if it seems I have thereby condemned myself to a kind of
eternal hell, then is does.  Why?  Primarily because I have made
too many self-destructive choices, but angers not directed by me
at me but by me at others are also part of the why.  Read this  
vestibular homily which serves as the first page of my Venturings
book.  If you don't, you will not be able to properly understand 
the rest of this rumination.                                     
                                                                 
Today (2008-12-02) over at KSM's Lime Tree I came upon a link to
this.  One sentence in it is: "It's all a question of where you
put the emphasis: on the self or on the poem; on the art product
or on the shared activity of making."  After all the opinions I've
encountered about language these past two years, this is the one  
that broke the proverbial camel's back.  Will get to it later.   
                                                                 
First, me.  In approximately six weeks, birthday 68.  I am a small
human.  A frail human.  My physical back has been broken several
years.  My body has other ailments.  --  I was raised in the small
(30,000+) Fox River Valley town of Fond du Lac, WI, situated at
the southern end of Lake Winnebago.  The Roman Catholicism which
I absorbed made it difficult for me to be honest with myself.    
Being somewhat intelligent, I allowed too much false pride to   
reign and not enough integrity.  So the sources of my/ disruptive
choices: sexual, financial, day-to-day.  From this vantage, some
of them prove that at those moments I was "verifiably" insane.
                                                                 
Neoliberal Poetry Broadside.  The authors of this straw clearly
enough indicate what poetics they prefer though they do admit 
that anathema transgressions occur there too.  The problem for 
me is that I am not committed to one way of expressing my It
Poetics.  Therefore, all the labels flitting about and about
strain my tolerance beyond annoyance since their flip existence
undermines the arguments of those who fling them.  Talk about
ego.  Anti-I? anti-capitalist?: with that kind of hegemonic
staging!?  I just don't get it.  Sure, those who are in with
what these authors espouse, generally love what is in their
broadside.  Poets who align themselves with this group or    
that group/ do so because they feel comfortable there.  It 
isn't easy--and scientific studies say, not even healthy--to
be isolated.  One of the finest statements Ron Silliman ever
made was the praise he accorded the late Quietist (yet not 
so quiet) Reginald Shepherd.  That is where we should be.  
Fine poems can be wrought in any style, and every day are.
The more ways found to make great poems, the better.  Is not
each poem an experiment, an innovation.  Have you not noticed
how often the most loved song by a rock band is that band's
quietist one?  Bang, bang, bang / bing, bing, bing / trang,
trang, trang / yangy, yangy.  That's noisy.  Oh huff 'n' puff.
"Revolving door."                                             
                                                             
                                                                
                                                             
                                                            
                                                              
                                                            
kh00012