Trick or treat

                   Blank page. Music slow. And writing for the smell of summer, gone.

Creation, not one person really knows what that even means.

                                                                                                    Not me

                                                                                                                Not them

                                                                                                                                   Especially, not me. 

It’s there; the hammer taps in the middle of

                            the end of sunlight. 

                                                                                                             Timely words of an old-shirt rubbing my shoulders, as fingers, body aging, my art, tired.

Plans and dates and running in the woods the other day I felt like the only person in the world, and the next day, I was the only one in the city park, because everyone drives passed what they love, and they never see me, or the water, the trees, the swans; only red-lights, but they never wait. 

They know it, so why do they even have to read about it? Look?  It’s there. It’s there. It’s there?

People don’t read-don’t ask-don’t care, and only ask for help when they condemn it to being A.OK, and boy do they ever take it. It’s only a disaster when it looks at them. They drives passed the storm every day, and the temperature is always controlled. 

                                                                                                        They only see when the have to see, regret when they want back what they love, when it was there, until the end of time. 

Don’t read-don’t care-don’t bother. Don’t worry about writing and walking and sitting  under a tree, man’s best friend, because they say it’s too cold, when really, it’s too warm.

There’s no time for writing and intellectual pursuits of the mind anymore, because people are smarter than we give them credit for.

Maybe I, give them way too much credit…

                                                                     I woke up with two hours of sleep, and now it’s the last day of October. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                         Trick or Treat. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Both. 

(Poetry) and (Prose) and (The Poet) and (The Writer)

In this upcoming book-object that I’m placing the final touches on (draft of cover pictured) Sleep Walking Under The Moon Soul Of Lake Michigan, there is some poetry in the first section of the book (still part of the overall story).

Usually I write prose, and back when I hung around with the poets I never understood them, and I got into many fights of the drunken late night theoretical variety .  Now that I’m away and isolated and have the time to come up with my own thoughts there’s some aspects of their art I’ve discovered:

Writing poetry will make you a better writer, editor, reader. 

I’ve only now started to respect the poet for their simplicity and words. The writer of prose often battles with the poetic clan, because really at times they’re as different as a painter is to a sculptor. Poets are always waiting for that word. Writers only wait to write everything, the story, all words, all life, down. Poetry can be much more difficult than writing a story, a narrative, as prose as they call them, and half a page could take as long as it takes to type ten pages full of paragraphs.

Sometimes located in American cities poets are often under-read assholes by their own conception, and this is based on modern poetic socialization, but of course  this can also go for writers who don’t really write, but really just enjoy labels of a tired and domesticated culture.  

Still, with that said, I’ve only now started to understand the micro-managing ethic of the poet, and the lack of nutrition that they never seem be concerned with. Poetry can often be a form of pseudo-intellectual ritual, a bird-song to attract mates, and that word… always waiting are the poets, for that word, and most of the time they never find it. Thus, they fall into politics, and usually stop reading prose entirely. 

Poets write prose sometimes, but I’m not talking about those poets. I’m talking about these poets. You know what I mean. If you don’t, never mind.

Some poets, like writers, often do nothing other than talk about writing, as if writing is a fashion,  but the good ones, the real poets, well I never really took the time to analyze their writing behavior.

The past year I’ve taken many hours to slowly learn how to write poetry, and now I get it, even though during this stage of my life I don’t have all that time for that much editing of a single word, because something new always inspires me to write about, it.

This waiting for a word that glosses over the rest is slow-moving and often never hops. You just get lost. You lose track of time. You forget about the blank page, and sometimes, you even forget about the poem, unfinished, because you’re fishing for that word to hook. And I get it. Sure do. Good luck poets. And I respect you, thank you, but back to my prose. I’ve never enjoyed the guts of fishing. It always just made me hungry. 

Walking in Sleep.

I’m not going to be doing much talking and posting of new material this week, the typical spontaneous outbursts. Just wanted to tell everyone to be safe and keep writing and reading. This week (for me) is busy with travel and editing, drafting, raking, camping and walking, reading, learning and  studying, editing, editing, graphic designing and formatting.

Two books soon. The fall is here, and now, I’m going to try and catch up on some sleep, because  for now, and thankfully, the heart has slowed down.

As I get older I try not to push myself creatively when exhaustion sets in, Better to nap and wake up without the anxiety of the frivolous wasting of manic-time.

Below  is a practice reading from an upcoming 80 page book I’m releasing called Sleep Walking Under The Moon Soul of Lake Michigan. I’ll explain the title, and  compose some crisper and tighter readings closer to the release . I’m being very careful with the look and the words and the vision I want to present to the public right now.

As always, thank you for reading. 

Where people really think (With reading down by windy lake)

Taken from, The Moon Soul of Lake Michigan, an upcoming book by Andrew H. Kuharevicz

Where people really think

The passengers;
The real Americans  they just want to go home, and for most of these people they don’t have a clue where home is anymore. They’re just going somewhere, and who knows where the spot will be, probably some new city, and who knows, but oh how they go, and why, why do they go in the rain in the fog in dirty clothes and hardly any kind of that traditional american cultivated hope?

The bus hoppers like grass hoppers of american thinkers;
these people, the bleeding truth of the real Americans  they go, they think, they think and go-go-think and go, because they still love life and want to smile once again, on their own free people’s accord, eating pumpkin pie and playing trivial pursuit without forcing feelings that aren’t there just yet.

The passengers;
the real Americans, with shoes in wet grass listening to the unnecessary nature of american politicians, the real Americans say, “I know a better way”, sometimes, often, and tired, so tired, just shaking their heads.

These age-old thinkers and lovers of wisdom;
these american concepts are the real human teachers, and they believe in love more than most people even realize. Born with blues and bright eyes.
Born within the windy days of the winter freeze.

And man oh man;
and it aint easy to be in a hurry and have to wait at the same time. You think people think a ton in church, in confessionals, in the voting booth or on the toilet? You think you know who knows what?

The passengers;
these alto sax and piano players with chess boards in backpack; these people with all these existential rumblings that shape-up, form, and then… incinerated, gone….born again with thoughts, plans, contingencies of what could be the future. All of these thinking grass-hopping raps and practice rehearsals are destroyed as the preacher is giving a sermon, as the office worker is daydreaming with eyes closed aimlessly clicking, thoughts of something, gone, consumed, by the dreamers control.

Location. Location. American Location. So many locations and so many places;
there are so many places where you can observe the american human creature thinking up a whole storm of thoughts. And where is where? the mass of students say…

Where?
A bus stop, a check-out line, as you’re looking through the other cars window, stopped at a street sign, hot out of the shower for the morning drive to the nine to five. There. There. Everywhere.

Thinking thoughts of thoughts made out of our thoughts; thoughts that are thinking at a busy bus terminal where there’s more thinking going on inside of the american digestion track than by any single group of people anywhere that I’ve ever been in my whole damn life.

In your city, away from my town, waiting for the bus;
that’s where people really think.