Boobie Tassels For Buddha

First of all, I am a no talent hack. But, I have awareness.

Here’s the thing. Blogs of all sorts are available ad-nauseum on the net. And there are a million different ways to get your creativity across. Do it, by all means available, if you must. What gets me at times is the whole American Idol audition syndrome where everybody thinks what they write is amazing. Fine. In all likelihood you write particularly well, especially if you came here. But there are those people…those who write poetry on other soc-nets for instance, when they have no business doing so.

In all honesty, if I see a poem other than in an anthology, or scrolling across a tv screen on veterans day, then it is out of place. Sure, we all found a way to string a bunch of rhymes together in high-school, or god forbid university, in an effort to score a little scratch, but those days are gone. If you write poetry, find an editor and have one knowing person tell you how much you suck as opposed to subjecting yourself to the critiques of the ignorant masses. Also, just because you are having a bad day/week/life, it does not mean that all your work has to bee dark and vampiry. For fuck sakes.

Chuck Bukowski is the man. Prolific. Truthful. Heart-breaking. Hard and Dirty. He gives literature some fuzz.

Learn Here.

Admire below.



Friendly Advice to a Lot of Young Men

Go to Tibet.
Ride a Camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a beard.
Circle the world in a paper canoe.
Subscribe to the Saturday Evening Post.
Chew on the left side of your mouth only.
Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.
And carve your name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.
Sleep all day and climb trees at night.
Be a monk and drink Buckshot and beer.
Hold your head under water and play the violin.
Do a belly dance before pink candles.
Kill your dog.
Run for Mayor.
Live in a barrel.
Break your head with a hatchet.
Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry.