three minutes
thank you, Chris (12/15/98/12:23am)
three minutes . . .
to negate my sins.
to make amends.
to hopefully gain a few friends for the remainder of this apprentice's experience.
Three minutes . . .
don't get delirious
but this is absurdly serious
Shattering realist visions of order and sense. three minutes . . .
stay calm. don't get tense. Three minutes
to translate my experience into your understanding.
i've written elsewhere that writing is a demanding god,
so i can't ramble roughshod over any topic.
Instead : Pick a goal. Focus energy. Drop it.
Try not to struggle against the paradoxical conundrum
of cramming free-spirited art into a three-minute run. Sometimes
it's chafing though. Three minutes . . . flow.
Three minutes of claustrophobic, expansionist desire.
three minutes to set cliched souls on fire.
three minutes on a wire, no net.
three minutes to break a sweat.
three minutes to organize internal urges into oral ejaculate. don't get the mic wet. only got two minutes left.
Geometrically speaking, 21,600 minutes compose a circle.
However, 7200 three-minute poems would hurt the
likelihood of pleasant audience reception. Three minutes
for you to accept some portion of this offering i'm making.
Three minutes with clocks tick tock taking
tiny tastes of mechanized, inorganic lives. Three-minute sex
is considered a three-minute failure, but poets should portray the
world in the twentieth of an hour?
That's power.
And this is not a complaint; the founder of the three-minute rule is a saint.
otherwise, some morbid poet with sad eyes and heavy pen would ramble
for half the day about his only friend, that three-legged, one-eyed, flea-bitten dog.
And i despise mic hogs.
Three minutes won't get you bogged too deeply in the muck and mire some folks call verse.
One minute left: time for the closing burst of versification and innovation representing the culmination of intensely directed poetic rumination regarding the condemnation of the lack of dedication afforded words by some practitioners without distancing the listener from the contemplation of escaping temporal boundaries of minutes three where floundering, foundering fools struggle vainly at the base of idealized artistic liberty to freely breathe.
Please.
it's just a fucking slam.
Before the night's over, ninety percent of the audience is probably too drunk to understand that some poets do this to survive.
But that's not a three-minute topic, so i'll stop this at about 2:35. |
