excerpt: THE REAL MCGONAGALL by Willie Holtzman

For to call him a poetaster, let alone a poet, is an insult to even the worst mediocrities posing as popular odists. McGonagall is not a bad poet; still less a good bad poet. He is not a poet at all, but a merciless hack and should be publicly flogged if ever again he breathes his name with even one member of the pantheon of this sacred calling. Until such time, this verbal flogging shall have to suffice." Who is this John Malcolm to judge me? A mere scribe for a second-rate, backwater newspaper trying desperately to make his name on self-contrived misery. A parasite whose opinions feed off others' creations. What has he ever created? When has he ever faced the terror of the blank page? My worst bit of verse is still better than his most wounding prose. And he has the audacity to call me a hack? This hackneyed self-appointed judge and jury. This Commenter. Opinionator. Critic! God help me. Is it possible he detected some flaw that had hitherto escaped my notice? Could there be some remote particle of truth to his assault on my art, nay, my very being? Is not the greatest artist as susceptible to vanity and self-delusion as the least? What else might prompt one writer to such depths of contempt over another writer's impulse to create, to enrich, perchance to entertain? Could it be that he is right? That I am not the poet I think I am?


No blade could strike as deep!

My burning desire to be a poet has wrecked my senses. I hallucinate. Where there are jackanapes I see adoring audiences. Where there are pranks I imagine patronage. Where there is mockery I hear praise. Where there is valueless topaz I conjure my poetic gems. Would you demand I acknowledge the derision? Very well - in the dark nights of the soul, I strip away the delusion and I know it all. I am the Patron Saint of Failed Artists, everywhere. I challenge you to scour my entire body of work in search of one elevated stanza, one excellent line, one elegant phrase, one redeeming word. You shall find...none. Not one. There is no public, no knighthood, no muse. Just vanity, and laughter. People laugh at me. To love something so deeply, and not be loved in return is in New York as in the world over, laughable.

But laugh at me only as you would laugh at yourself. For in the end is there nothing to be said for the primal human urge to create? To be more than our mere material selves? Would you blame a poor weaver who wishes to leave behind something more than flawed cloth?

And if that desire to do more, to yearn for some touch of divinity, should glow as a transforming light within, who can call it illusion? Who dare call me a hack who has not coarsely and cursedly extinguished that light within himself even as he cruelly announces that my fame is lies?
Who can deny, to a certainty, that it is not the Muse who whispers "Write!" Shakespeare, himself, writes of lunatics, lovers, and poets as if there is a difference. Draw near, romantics. In my heart of hearts, am I so different from you? This need to create, this divinely implanted most human seed - fear it not for the faultfinders. Sing it to life, celebrate it; whether it soars on winged words or crashes leadenly to earth. Praise genius, if you must, but do please, people, to all events, cherish imperfection, if you can. Because even the most imperfect poem is an act of love, of humanity. And, in the end, what more can we ask of ourselves than that we were human. That we were our true selves in full view of the World; that we revealed our soul. To be even a failed poet is to love fearlessly, foolishly, with an open heart to all. This, my friends, is the Real McGonagall!

Did I rhyme?

excerpt from Strange People by AWJ

A stupid observation about myself you know living the way that I have been for quite some time. I can look at a commercially attractive woman and I have absolutely no desire to do anything other than just look at their aesthetic purposes, to see you know those are interesting lines the curves of the body, whatever. But I have no desire. If she said, “come up to my apartment. Let’s get a hotel room or something.” No thanks. I mean I I just I I don’t. I just cannot imagine doing such a thing and I don’t feel like it. I don’t get those kind of dreams anymore. I dream about potato salad and , oh a wonderful Steak Diane. , things like that you know. , the smell of a brand new pair of shoes nobody else wore ever. , taking a shower all by myself. , things like that you know I but if I was going to be in a bed I wouldn’t want her in there. I’d want to be in a bed all by myself with a lock on the door. That’s great you know. I wouldn’t fall asleep with , you know, particularly if she’s a Russian cause you know they give you stuff in your drink. You’ll never see your Rolex again. Well, I just pissed off some Russians.

Ooh. I found a big Monte Crisco sandwich from Bennigan’s in perfect condition. Normally I wouldn’t order such a thing but one of those and you’re not hungry for about eleven hours. I mean that’s the sort of thing would be perfect with a big glass of ginger ale which I did not find with the sandwich, but it was very nice actually. I haven’t had one of those in years.

Once during the summer a bizarre thing happened I was looking in the trash near the m Lawrey’s Prime Rib. they’ve since removed the trash can there I used to refer to that trash can as my salad bar. Anyway so, I they I was looking in that trash can and in there was a completly unopened half gallon of Bryer’s Vanilla Ice-cream. And it was in the summer and it had just melted to the point where it was palatable with a plastic spoon just absolutely perfect I took it and I walked all the way across from the Drake hotel in the park and I ate it and ate it and ate it until no more would fit inside of me and I didn’t let go of the container until I had digested some of it whatever I had and then I drank the rest it was so wonderful to think that there are people who are able to abuse themselves like that everyday. , well that’s something to hope for.

flickr photos

I just started adding pics to Flickr photos more to come!