like bards of old

there's something about
print.

many
more people see me
online perhaps at the
moment, but the thou
-ght of my words, my
design out there with
the people - getting
wet and warped, the
newsprint #35 paper
fades eventually. it
went through a
process to get
to homes. almost
20 thousand of
them.

what is it -
98% of new
businesses
fail? taking a
risk jumping
to print, but
being out
there on
the streets,
talking to the
people - the workers,
the owners, the bosses,
the managers - talking to
them, some are unimpressed,
but those that do see the potential
there - that passion from them to
me. not in a rockstar way a whole
bunch at once in a rush, but a time
delayed exchange of energy in a
way.

it's a worry too, though, having
a mass printed piece of any-
thing out there in the public
eye and i try not to be too
crazy when out there,
but it's who i am,
the artist, the
poet, the
publisher
on the side
to finance other
dreams and poems
yet to be written.

i've forgotten.
i'm forgetting.

forging ahead,
ideas continue
to fall and i am
the clown, the
court jester
wordsmith
going from
castletown
to castle-
town and
trying to
remove
frowns
but what
most people
don't know is the
times spent traveling
from town to town and
feeling rained on, wet,
down in a general sense.

but yeah, no, the future - the
community online but for now
a last shout with print, my voice
getting louder and louder - or,
rather, the voice of the people
led by me and others getting
louder and louder. and here
i am, writing spontaneous
(long) poetry in the middle
of the night to unwind.

alone but with memories, 
i manage to make my way
from one virtual town to
another to tend to my
online communities
like gardens, and i
tend to romanticize
and daydream and
yeah, oh yeah, i am

published.

persistent.

perturbed sometimes by
the curve of time and the
distance between two
points being a line.

that time spent
moving between
castletowns -
the days and
nights on the
road trying to
come up with
new material
about england,
england, france,
france ... in some
sort of word trance...

to breathe poetry,
exist just outside
of it as a concrete,
real thing.

random thoughts.

53 or so tossed about.

bet i can make you laugh.

the beauty is perhaps the
mixing (and sometimes
mashing) of all these
separate personalities
or separate realities on
the planet and like planets
and other big balls of matter
out there, some gravitate toward
others - revolving, sometimes solving
the calculated equation, but that's no
life - rain man being quick with
numbers. and today - the
people i came into
contact with - the
situations i got
myself into.

hanging onto
being printed,
though, and
perhaps not
read a lot yet
but soon the
numbers will
grow and i know
the numbers are
people and will
try to treat them
so and it will go
from one level
to the next as i
try to divide my
time between
art and work
and life and
all the while,
the answer
is there, in
my mind.

you ever start a poem
and wonder politely if
you should stop? either
writing or reading. heh.
probably not. so is this
poetry? the professor
peers at the poem
stacked in front of
him.

not wallace stevens,
with a simple note
on the fridge, oh no.

there i go.

here i go.

the last set of
crossroads is
passed in many
senses and there's
only one way to go
now so i plow forward
the word "charge" ringing
in my mind, in the back-
ground.

the early jester bards
going from town to
town (castle or not)
probably rather more
than not had friends
along sometimes to
make the long journey
from royal court to side
of the road dance hall
somewhat more tolerable.

able.

ugh. the ability to remember, to
feel the moments from the past
as if they were happening right
now, this very moment, and at
the same time not being able
to do as well in real time, with

wisps of thoughts.

i have a neighborhood.

i have a future and a sense of
humor - a good combination
for doing some things on
this planet. things for the
better and i wonder some
nights if i will be any better
really when i get bigger - will
i not succumb to everything
that everyone else has fallen
to throughout time - that love
of money ... but, as usual, i
catapult myself to a possible
future (or examine in detail my
past) instead of living in the
present moment.

there,
i said it.

i wrote it.

i typed it.

there's a certain
truth to poetry, to
good poetry, and
i know this ain't it,
but i like to feel the
words from thoughts
form on the page in
front of me and i've
given up the char-
coal drawing for
a bit as i take
stock of the
new home-
front and the
new lineup of
people in my life
and the new tasks
to complete in this
next stretch of road
upon which i walk,
briskly, drinking,
of course, ras-
berry tea.

finding the
passion which
with i started this
journey - is happening.

the solitude gives way to
the daily routine of existence
and the life experiences come
from talking to the people who
aren't just numbers, aren't just
customers, but are my neighbors.

the yammering poodle yaps, but there's
a breed of poodles (so i hear) that reaches
quite a size. heh. sometimes i just stop and
sit back and a smile happens upon my face.

so there's good too,
to being a poet such
as i - to be i - the id
in me. and i'd be
none other than
the me i purport
to be, so you
must see.

please excuse the parts
i should edit or somehow
do without in this piece. i hope
to retire to a secluded tower and
reassemble all of this into a volume
of poetry to be printed, but until then i
open my eyes, i stretch, i talk out loud
and in my mind and i drop lines of my
thoughts to the screen for you to see
and most likely not read due to length.

here lies kpaul.
he was verbose.

i don't know, i do the
single thought, single
theme poems some-
times, but other times
you need a monster
poem like this and i
want to write a novel
length story out like
this with the line
breaks i claim
as part of my
style - and,
again, some-
day. maybe. or
as they say, perhaps,
perhaps, perhaps.

tired but moving forward,
marching as to war, in a
strictly business / guerilla
marketing way. small smile.