Poetry. I began writing these poems in an empty moment when I thought maybe I'd run out and had no more to do. Snap. I found lines coming to me on waking in the morning, insisting I follow them into odd short poems, strange to see, indicating what I knew not. Eventually I began writing them while watching movies (from Hopalong Cassidy Enters to Last Year At Marienbad) on satellite TV, a practice reminding me of DeKooning drawing with his left hand, Guston pen in hand watching the Watergate coverage, and of course Kerouac ...
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Poetry. I began writing these poems in an empty moment when I thought maybe I'd run out and had no more to do. Snap. I found lines coming to me on waking in the morning, insisting I follow them into odd short poems, strange to see, indicating what I knew not. Eventually I began writing them while watching movies (from Hopalong Cassidy Enters to Last Year At Marienbad) on satellite TV, a practice reminding me of DeKooning drawing with his left hand, Guston pen in hand watching the Watergate coverage, and of course Kerouac scribing his Blues. The point? Freedom. An overcoming of the obstacles erected by any conceptions of the poem. A glee here I hadn't felt since writing the first poems of my own (1965). A casting off into the day's winds, feeling light and lit, knowing I still have a long way to go, a lot more to lose (Preface).
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