Archive for writing

habit and rancor

Posted in best of GJK, for Calvin Grandaw, for Jingle et. al., humor, New Poems, no-mad poets, poems, poems 2017, prose, taoist, zen with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 16, 2017 by GJK

GJK, 16MAR2017


habit and rancor’

hello, predictable. hello, habit. hello shitty diner coffee

that i do so love with every fiber of my mortal being, every mote

of the ephemeral essence that is not me, yet, in truth, is entirely

me and you and every living thing that ever was and ever will be (which means nothing because time is a fiction) and because, as we have learned and understood for eternity — time is not real.

conversely, timelessness is also not real. confusion enters

the mind and sugar is stirred into the ‘brackish black liquid’

and down my gullet it goes and once again i proclaim:

Sentence structure be damned to the deepest bowels

of the most foul, vile and wicked lake of fire

that sentience itself has ever imagined within

the rancorous confines of earthly existence!

YAWP! grammar, to hell with thee! freedom, expression, caffeine! exaltation and liberty!

* * *


ignoring all

Posted in best of GJK, New Poems, no-mad poets, poems, poems 2017, taoist, zen with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 9, 2017 by GJK

i sit contentedly ignoring all that surrounds

and focus only upon the internal realm

of consciousness in all its infinite, formless

and unknowable grandeur.  i am beauty and ugliness,

i am order and entropy, i am all

and i am nothing.

i laugh aloud and startle my neighbors in this common room

of this public house.  i alight from my overstuffed chair

and exit abruptly to smoke that cigarette

that awaits me in the shotgun seat of my own truck

and damn it is wonderful.

the sun shines on the smoke

and i disappear




from GJK’s upcoming effort, WRIGHT THE BOOK, F***ER

Posted in best of GJK, sarcasm with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 13, 2012 by GJK

chapter eight


go into the spare room in your place

connect the power to the machine

connect the matrix to the machine

power it up and wait.  click the icon

labeled TYPEWRITER then walk away,

find yourself something, anything to drink.

roll a smoke.  sit back down at the machine

and tell me what’s on your mind, no matter

what it is, just type it.

write until it drives you crazy

go get a refill of whatever

smoke that smoke that you rolled

who knows how long ago.  smoke it as if

your life depends on it and get back

to the typer.  write more, write brilliantly,

write terribly, write until you hate it

completely.  make sure your work is saved

shut the shittin’ machine down

and forget that you even own

a computer.  don’t look at it again

until tomorrow, and tomorrow you will

pretend you have never written a thing

in your life, you will enter the room,

you will work your guts out

you will give yourself backaches

and soul-aches you never could have imagined

before this.  but you’ll keep doing it,

dogging along until you have a couple hundred

pages.  you’ll probably think it’s useless,

but it’s better than you could ever know.

you’re too close to it—

it’s your life and dreams on the page

so leave it to someone else for awhile.

a friend of yours will read it.

don’t you dare delete.  you wrote something

worth keeping, maybe even something worth

sharing with the world.  maybe even something

worth selling.  do all this and you will

be able to pretend that you are me, so

don’t do it.  your method, i’m sure,

is better than mine.