Will Dockery
2004-06-13 16:36:26 UTC
"Renay St. James" <***@prettyprettyprincess.com> wrote
> > > > > Sunglass.
> > > > >
> > > > > This battered old shell
> > > > > looks like a death mask.
> > > > >
> > > > > Lucky or not I shall wear it
> > > > > as I walk into Phenix City.
> > > > > Though I cheated in my gambling
> > > > > I wound up broke anyway.
> > > > >
> > > > > And I come, and I pay
> > > > > the zombie whores and walking dead.
> > > > > While the dark lady in sunglasses
> > > > > takes the halo from his clay head.
> > > > >
> > > > > One more trip over that bridge
> > > > > to the kissing booth.
> > > > > Where there's smoke there may be fire
> > > > > and this time I got burned.
> > > > >
> > > > > I walk this beach at midnight
> > > > > like a zen dharma beach bum.
> > > > > And I am saved, and I turn.
> > > > >
> > > > > I watch the drunken poets, and my lawyer.
> > > > > While the dark lady in sunglasses
> > > > > takes the halo from his clay head.
> > > > >
> > > > > -Will Dockery (c)2003
> > "Getting into it" is not how I'd describe it. But I *will* defend myself.
>
> against WHAT? people who try to pat you on the head
> like all you are is a photograph without a brain? mindless
> insults about sucking up and sucking cock? I see.
Yeah, on this sober Sunday I feel I went too far with the "cock
sucking" comments to JJWeb [Blue]. I keep reminding myself to take it
easy and not get too deep in the flame games stuff... I'll track him
down and give him an apology.
On this sober Sunday, I realise that I jumped in too far, in ager,
because of all the comments here, his hit home closest, hit a nerve,
so to speak.
Money *has* always been tight, I've never really made what might be
considered "great" money, decent jobs over the years, for Shadowville,
but nothing spectacular. And certainly not from poetry.
Add to that the *fact* that outside of Shadowville [which even here I
can't, or won't, make any noticable $$$ from the words/music/art]
relatively few people know me as a poet... and here, in many quarters,
I'm more infamous than famous... the underground types all know me,
artists, musicians, as well as the *sleazier* elements, and strangely,
the "academic" types never jeer or heckle me, but they probably like
me personally well enough to ignore my poems when I flub up some
verses... and point out "good" lines... some probably admire my rough
edged, "self taught" style:
I *did* make it this far, as short a distance it arguably is, against
pretty much impossible odds. Grade and High School here in the 1970s
for whatever reason seemed intent on smashing this "poetry" idea I
had, for probably exactly the reasons most of you hate me: I did it on
my own, and didn't [don't] tend to listen to "sage advice"... there's
no "literary" background in my family, really, and my mother and
uncles [mother's side] were the first people in my family to go to
college, though I suppose some Dockerys or Whitleys [or Lawsons or
Darlymples] may have attended college hundreds of years ago in the
"old country"... the Creek, Cherokee, Choctaw, et cetera, of course,
had a very different system of higher learning... both sides of my
family are very typical Southern families, comfortable, but never
"rich".
And it's true I've dropped out of college... *three* times. It's true
that I never had that "drive" to amass grand amounts of money and
material things... the conceit [sic?] is: I'm a poet, and not
concerned with material things. I make enough money to "get by"... the
wives and countless women I've loved and lost would agree more with
the judgement of the newsgroup trolls: I'm a lazy sod.
I like to brag that one of the great things about being a "povert
stricken poet" is that I know a woman loves me for *me*, not my money.
*grin*
But, yeah, it hurts when they give up and drift away. Sometimes due to
"incredible" hardships I put them through, lack of money, security, et
cetera, sometimes because I'd rather run around with my cronies of the
season, playing at being a poet, getting pats on the back for being
"Will Dockery, outlaw poet of Shadowville", sometimes because I get
blinded by the cheap thrills of playing the hard drinking groupie
shagger, and time after time expect the "little lady" to be sitting
happily at home, waiting for "Neal Cassady" to drive up and light up
her life... although the power's turned off and she might be sitting
by a fireplace, reading his poetry by candle light. A romantic notion,
unless you have *no choice*, Dark Queen and I both agreed, some years
after we gave it up. She went back home to her mother, and I went off
to "fame" with a group of Phish/Deadheads...
Anyhow, before I went off into this Kerouac chapter, on this Sober
Sunday, is that yes, yes, yes, after years of flaming and
grandstanding, I admit that Renay, Colin, Tom, and several others here
are right in much of what they write: my poetry could *at least* stand
some rewrite, some "distance". My Kerouac et al "never change a word"
"philosophy" boils down, at least partially, to being a lazy sod.
Content to dash out some "poems" and rely on performance and flashy
"beatnik" presentation to score.
And that doesn't go over like Flint on a text based medium, with
people that *have* sweated and studied the "craft".
Anyhow, this began as an apology to Blue [JJWeb] for losing my temper
at the blunt points he made, points that actually are intended to help
me. Calling him a "cocksucker" was low... and hypocritically, I'd
probably blast a troll with high handed insults if *they* sank to that
level. Cool as I *am*, there's obviously a deep undercurrent of
homophobia [or *shudder* is it lantent homosexuality?] in that knee
jerk insult.
And I'm surprised that nobody's called me on my strange mixture of
goddess worship and misogyny. Nita Gale
<http://midgetbigot.easyjournal.com/> was the *only* person who had
the balls to call me on that, she used to love me, but obviously gave
up on me years ago, as well.
So, I'm seriously considering consulting Colin on the idea of giving
me some poetry tutorial, as he [maybe joking, but interesting, anyhow]
wrote on one of these threads: "The difference between [poetry
craftwork] and a bad acid trip." I really want to learn the
difference, since quite a bit of LSD, as well as weed and of course
booze has gone down the hatch over the years... though lately it's
almost always booze--- which for years I always said it was impossible
for me to write [even my meager poetry] while drunk.
Ah, well, enough for now... it's time to go out and play "pizza
delivery technician" and my current absurd "advertising exectutive"
gig [Hey! I *do* get out there and meet, greet, and get the phones
ringing... whatever I'm doing with the flyers and promotion is selling
pizza like never before. Pizza Roma has hired coupon passers for 15
years, and Ben swears he's *never* had results like those I bring...
sorry, the insecurity blleds through, who but *Will Dockery* would
"brag" before, as Google announces, "potentially millions of readers"
about being a pizza boy/coupon passer... *but* Shadowville is the "big
fish small pond" archtype in a classic sense... could I make it in New
York, Hollywood? I did well enough in Atlanta, but honestly Atlanta is
pretty much just an overgrown Shadowville.][Get this, it's very easy
to swell with pride when I hear things like the other day outside
Pizza Roma as I stood with Pasko, Ben, Brando, Carol, and Woodstock
Eddy having a joint, and i said, "Well my loves, it's off to my
*advertising executive* coupon passing gig..." and Carol corrected me:
"Your a poet." and of course I agreed.] and eventually I'll have to,
as Blue pointed out: put up or shut up, or remain Poet Lawrry-ette of
Shadowville.
I still think JRSherman's wrong, though: it *is* poetry.
Will
> > > > > Sunglass.
> > > > >
> > > > > This battered old shell
> > > > > looks like a death mask.
> > > > >
> > > > > Lucky or not I shall wear it
> > > > > as I walk into Phenix City.
> > > > > Though I cheated in my gambling
> > > > > I wound up broke anyway.
> > > > >
> > > > > And I come, and I pay
> > > > > the zombie whores and walking dead.
> > > > > While the dark lady in sunglasses
> > > > > takes the halo from his clay head.
> > > > >
> > > > > One more trip over that bridge
> > > > > to the kissing booth.
> > > > > Where there's smoke there may be fire
> > > > > and this time I got burned.
> > > > >
> > > > > I walk this beach at midnight
> > > > > like a zen dharma beach bum.
> > > > > And I am saved, and I turn.
> > > > >
> > > > > I watch the drunken poets, and my lawyer.
> > > > > While the dark lady in sunglasses
> > > > > takes the halo from his clay head.
> > > > >
> > > > > -Will Dockery (c)2003
> > "Getting into it" is not how I'd describe it. But I *will* defend myself.
>
> against WHAT? people who try to pat you on the head
> like all you are is a photograph without a brain? mindless
> insults about sucking up and sucking cock? I see.
Yeah, on this sober Sunday I feel I went too far with the "cock
sucking" comments to JJWeb [Blue]. I keep reminding myself to take it
easy and not get too deep in the flame games stuff... I'll track him
down and give him an apology.
On this sober Sunday, I realise that I jumped in too far, in ager,
because of all the comments here, his hit home closest, hit a nerve,
so to speak.
Money *has* always been tight, I've never really made what might be
considered "great" money, decent jobs over the years, for Shadowville,
but nothing spectacular. And certainly not from poetry.
Add to that the *fact* that outside of Shadowville [which even here I
can't, or won't, make any noticable $$$ from the words/music/art]
relatively few people know me as a poet... and here, in many quarters,
I'm more infamous than famous... the underground types all know me,
artists, musicians, as well as the *sleazier* elements, and strangely,
the "academic" types never jeer or heckle me, but they probably like
me personally well enough to ignore my poems when I flub up some
verses... and point out "good" lines... some probably admire my rough
edged, "self taught" style:
I *did* make it this far, as short a distance it arguably is, against
pretty much impossible odds. Grade and High School here in the 1970s
for whatever reason seemed intent on smashing this "poetry" idea I
had, for probably exactly the reasons most of you hate me: I did it on
my own, and didn't [don't] tend to listen to "sage advice"... there's
no "literary" background in my family, really, and my mother and
uncles [mother's side] were the first people in my family to go to
college, though I suppose some Dockerys or Whitleys [or Lawsons or
Darlymples] may have attended college hundreds of years ago in the
"old country"... the Creek, Cherokee, Choctaw, et cetera, of course,
had a very different system of higher learning... both sides of my
family are very typical Southern families, comfortable, but never
"rich".
And it's true I've dropped out of college... *three* times. It's true
that I never had that "drive" to amass grand amounts of money and
material things... the conceit [sic?] is: I'm a poet, and not
concerned with material things. I make enough money to "get by"... the
wives and countless women I've loved and lost would agree more with
the judgement of the newsgroup trolls: I'm a lazy sod.
I like to brag that one of the great things about being a "povert
stricken poet" is that I know a woman loves me for *me*, not my money.
*grin*
But, yeah, it hurts when they give up and drift away. Sometimes due to
"incredible" hardships I put them through, lack of money, security, et
cetera, sometimes because I'd rather run around with my cronies of the
season, playing at being a poet, getting pats on the back for being
"Will Dockery, outlaw poet of Shadowville", sometimes because I get
blinded by the cheap thrills of playing the hard drinking groupie
shagger, and time after time expect the "little lady" to be sitting
happily at home, waiting for "Neal Cassady" to drive up and light up
her life... although the power's turned off and she might be sitting
by a fireplace, reading his poetry by candle light. A romantic notion,
unless you have *no choice*, Dark Queen and I both agreed, some years
after we gave it up. She went back home to her mother, and I went off
to "fame" with a group of Phish/Deadheads...
Anyhow, before I went off into this Kerouac chapter, on this Sober
Sunday, is that yes, yes, yes, after years of flaming and
grandstanding, I admit that Renay, Colin, Tom, and several others here
are right in much of what they write: my poetry could *at least* stand
some rewrite, some "distance". My Kerouac et al "never change a word"
"philosophy" boils down, at least partially, to being a lazy sod.
Content to dash out some "poems" and rely on performance and flashy
"beatnik" presentation to score.
And that doesn't go over like Flint on a text based medium, with
people that *have* sweated and studied the "craft".
Anyhow, this began as an apology to Blue [JJWeb] for losing my temper
at the blunt points he made, points that actually are intended to help
me. Calling him a "cocksucker" was low... and hypocritically, I'd
probably blast a troll with high handed insults if *they* sank to that
level. Cool as I *am*, there's obviously a deep undercurrent of
homophobia [or *shudder* is it lantent homosexuality?] in that knee
jerk insult.
And I'm surprised that nobody's called me on my strange mixture of
goddess worship and misogyny. Nita Gale
<http://midgetbigot.easyjournal.com/> was the *only* person who had
the balls to call me on that, she used to love me, but obviously gave
up on me years ago, as well.
So, I'm seriously considering consulting Colin on the idea of giving
me some poetry tutorial, as he [maybe joking, but interesting, anyhow]
wrote on one of these threads: "The difference between [poetry
craftwork] and a bad acid trip." I really want to learn the
difference, since quite a bit of LSD, as well as weed and of course
booze has gone down the hatch over the years... though lately it's
almost always booze--- which for years I always said it was impossible
for me to write [even my meager poetry] while drunk.
Ah, well, enough for now... it's time to go out and play "pizza
delivery technician" and my current absurd "advertising exectutive"
gig [Hey! I *do* get out there and meet, greet, and get the phones
ringing... whatever I'm doing with the flyers and promotion is selling
pizza like never before. Pizza Roma has hired coupon passers for 15
years, and Ben swears he's *never* had results like those I bring...
sorry, the insecurity blleds through, who but *Will Dockery* would
"brag" before, as Google announces, "potentially millions of readers"
about being a pizza boy/coupon passer... *but* Shadowville is the "big
fish small pond" archtype in a classic sense... could I make it in New
York, Hollywood? I did well enough in Atlanta, but honestly Atlanta is
pretty much just an overgrown Shadowville.][Get this, it's very easy
to swell with pride when I hear things like the other day outside
Pizza Roma as I stood with Pasko, Ben, Brando, Carol, and Woodstock
Eddy having a joint, and i said, "Well my loves, it's off to my
*advertising executive* coupon passing gig..." and Carol corrected me:
"Your a poet." and of course I agreed.] and eventually I'll have to,
as Blue pointed out: put up or shut up, or remain Poet Lawrry-ette of
Shadowville.
I still think JRSherman's wrong, though: it *is* poetry.
Will