Alien Vowels

"Words are what stick to the real. We use them to push the real, to drag the real into the poem. They are what we hold on with, nothing else. They are as valuable in themselves as rope with nothing to be tied to." — Jack Spicer, After Lorca

Picked up a copy of The Collected Books of Jack Spicer last weekend. Nearly jumped out of my kicks when I found it misshelved with the "new" used fiction and marked for four dollars. Nearly a week later and I'm still wondering how the hell I went so long (at least five years) between reads. It also got me realizing I hadn't been writing much else since starting this blog. Thought I would have to change that, went to sleep and woke up with two or three projects in mind. Worked on the first, rather small one (ten poem series) Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Time to let it sit for a while and see what it amounts to. Hope to start on the second project this weekend. It wil be longer. Book length. Which isn't promising for me. Most of the longer projects I start end less-than-half finished, abandoned due to some sudden change of aestheitc or whatever. But, in the beginning, the field is open, waiting for crop circles like alien vowles, waiting for trim marks, registration on the page.