This past weekend, we packed up the Outlander and headed northeast to King’s Lynn for a little camping excursion. The first one of the season. I know it’s late, but heck with the earlier weather not being the best and then vacation time in Fuerteventura, well the days and weeks fly by and before you know it’s mid-July before you’re pitching tent for the first time in 2018. Looks like we caught the last of the dry, hot weather too, so good deal all around.

King’s Lynn is a seaport and market town in Norfolk, England. At 102 miles, it’s the nearest beach to us (actually the beach we went to was about 30 miles north of our campsite in Hunstanton. It was fabulous grabbing so much fresh air over the weekend, and two nights of open fire – bonus!

 

On the beach, I crafted these two poems:

profit

instead of profit,
music is the bottom line

dance floor constructed

sexual

mind-altering
experience to create
a language of desire

the break from real
sold to us through
escape

the environment
where physical connection
seemingly encouraged
emotional engagement

suppressed.

 

 

the composition of style

sexual energy
makes less than
what it seems

body becomes object
the desire within,
a chance to touch
the forbidden

day breaks
the magic ends

keeps coming back
keeps pouring in

gay or straight flyers
advertising the event
energy, sex, or otherwise

the composition of
the style of

the streets of New York City

I got in line came
face to face with attractive
young women bundled against
the cold in stylish pleasant
conversation, sensually dressed
heroin-chic, collecting £15 for
privileged entry.

I entered the chapel
headed for the bar
too early for the truth

at the bar, I found
the congregation
of the beautiful

demarcating
truth from beauty

 

can be yourself
don’t bottle up the body,

keep it open.

when all self-identifications remain
get rid of

god.

no self-definition, i am
energy and bring nothing
reality here, can i

demand nothing when you
want nothing, seek nothing
expect nothing

unexpected!

a man engrossed
prescribed by his scriptures
will get wrapped up in them

so many saints
words may be true
independent of ripening time

stay open and quiet
you seek no place
know that

don’t burden yourself
names seeking ends
desire for truth, this is
your profit

seeking at

I finally finished Jack Kerouac’s Book of Sketches. The story goes that in 1951, Jack’s friend Ed White encouraged him to do like painters do and make sketches in the street but with words instead of paint. And so Kerouac did. He began writing down prose poem “sketches” in the small notebooks he kept in his shirt pocket. For two years he recorded his travels, observations, and meditations on art and life as he roamed around America and Mexico. The Book of Sketches is a compilation of all his sketch notebooks.

I really enjoyed this book. It’s like a prose poem version of Robert Frank’s The Americans. The book left me inspired to do the same, to create little prose poem sketches of my day. Since I mentioned Robert Frank, I thought I also might go back to doing Hipstomatic snapshots throughout the day and add those with the prose poem sketches.

Alright, here goes the first one… (oh and I might as well add a modern twist and add make the prose poem sketches hypertext prose poems sketches…how about that?!

girl – bun in her hair
bouncy breasts little tan
backpack – watching
her from a stain-glassed window
lifting heavy weights on the bench today
outside playing on my bluetooth headset

the parking ticket attendant
walks like John Wayne
how did he get this job
bullying people he can’t see
just another filthy agent of the state –
massive control

Punching the weight up to 130kg
it’s not what a body looks like
it’s what a body can do that counts.

all american nightmare
making those good girls bad

Short dude in the locker room
shaking his shake like he shakes
his thing…way too long

people are broken,
what’s the point of
trying to fix them

focus on doing my thing
like frank santra, not the cake
version but this

that’s it
i go into the evening, fresh

Oh and this puppy arrived today from the States:

so i lay there
playing with splinters
in the late red afternoon

the angels of paradise
hidden in the mystery
of my days leaning
on warm wings sang to me

sticks lie broken
dead leaves gather dust
i am homesick here
in the ashes

all i wanted was
glory found only
strange sadness instead

on a pristine
october afternoon
i applied for a job
begging at the ports

all for the sake
of feeling my way
against the ghost
of your truth

my lies limed
and loaded flowed
easy riding the night’s
last flicker of hope

i was young
i tried to capture
you with rhymes
and exotic suggestions

touching myself
pretending to be
a poet of all things

you were a tourist
picking through
the constellations
looking for something
behind my falling words

you found nothing but
a boy from jazz highway
rustling night’s leaves