and then...species

Yesterday, being someone trying to write a poem was unusual for me. I don't usually try, when I write poetry. I just do. That's why don't I don't call myeslf a poet, so. 

But it made me think of species of art. Art you make because circumstance, experience and consequence; and art you make in spite of those things, which is just what art is. Just because i have a poetic voice doesn't mean I could spend all my time make art healing, art healing, art heals, I know. The advice I give is always to produce work, to get you out of any rut. But does that represent us? Like if I say:

To my dear sexed vanguard

sir lovely

mental faculty is met most clean in waists tapering, boys capering, backs arching into 


is your softest plea for touch me, touch me. 

That's all very clear, right? Oh I'm so young and broken hearted. But gosh it's not our novel made magnum opus. But look out for Trachea and the like, when I release them. I don't call myself a poet but. Boy backs arch anyway...

So, Cope Syndrome is my self despite. In his self righteous, highest species of art. But I must say, if I am to tie it to circumstance, my novel, unlike all other real males his age, is not ashamed to say he loves me. heheh. 

Utensils? I've used four pens and three pencils in the last two months. Trying to get rid of the ones I've gotten so that I can get the ones I want...I bought my favorite for awhile until I realized how silly it was at two dollars a pen when I already had too many. 

You have the line to consider, and the weight of the ink, and the delivery of the ink, the fumes, to look, the shape in your hand, hahphallicphallic, fettish unfinished, I love writing by hand. 

In fact, these blog posts of just about the only thing I type without writing by hand first. Except Skype messages and some Twitter posts. I suppose there are others, I don't care to to think of it. Well dear, isn't that our tagline fresh. If you have questions for me or the muses, you leave a comment.