Rebel Writers (plus a poem – Sinner)

Graphic of red moon and yellow stars against a black sky

Red Moon, graphic by Estela

I said I didn’t want to continue writing here. I haven’t made up my mind yet: should I stay or should I go?

I had a dream last night about poets. Not academic poets, but rebel poets, free spirit poets, bohemian poets, poets who hate “the establishment”. Old guys who are gone now, and whom I never met. But in my dream they were there and I was there. I was chastising them, criticizing them, chewing them out, calling them losers and reckless fools. Telling them I regretted my stupidity and naivete at having loved and admired them. Telling them I followed them because I believed in them, but I no longer did. I woke up feeling depressed.

I was listening to Hank Williams. Lost Highway is a great song. I got inspired to write this poem called Sinner. Williams’ song is about remorse, guilt, and judgment. Mine isn’t. It’s a dark humored rebellion against shallow judgement. I think I will open my next poetry reading with this one. My poetry reading at Adobe Books. It’s a Flor y Canto Festival, and I’m happy I was invited to be one of the poets to read. One of the readers I’m reading with is A. D. Winans, a San Francisco born, award winning poet who was a friend of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is my number one favorite writer in the whole world. I’d read that he knew Brautigan too, but Winans told me he didn’t know Richard Brautigan, but they drank in the same bar, Gino and Carlo’s in North Beach, and only had casual conversation. Brautigan wrote Trout Fishing in America, which brought him lit fame, but my fave is In Watermelon Sugar. I love all his novels. I have them all (in paperback) and one book of poems, which I found at a used book store over thirty years ago. I think he’s got mainly a cult following now, though it’s possible he is taught in academia. I really have no idea. I’ve never met anyone who knows him. They always go, “Who?” Geezus. :/ Anyway, I remember when I  saw Brautigan’s picture on the front page of the newspaper, with news of his suicide. He blew his brains out a la Hemingway, his lit hero. His decomposing body was found in his Bolinas house. It was estimated he’d been dead a month. It broke my heart.


I guess you can say
I’m a sinner.

Drinking, and smoking,
and cursing,

kicking up my heals
to blow the blues,

all those things
a “good woman”
shouldn’t do.

I rambled a bit,
and gambled a bit,

and gave my soul
to rock and roll.

But I don’t repent my past.
I had a blast.

So, I suppose
you can call me
a goddamned sinner.

♠ ♠ ♠ ♠    Please, feel free to comment. 😛


About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet. Artist. Grammy of one, a granddaughter. Mom of three, son and two daughters, all grown. Individualist. Care-taker of Isabel, an agoraphobic, fear-aggressive, very nervous, delicate flower, Chihuahua mix.
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