Ezra POUNDed My Head

February 9, 2012

Ezra POUNDed my head today

I woke up in the (William) BURROUGHS of my mind

Unable to NEAL like Cassady and pray

I write like I am an ARTHUR (Rimbaud) of many poems but

I am really a HUNTER (S. Thompson) of words

A Patti wordSMITH

 

I am hungry for an Allan GINSBERGer with cheese

Flap JACK Kerouac rhymes touch my soul

I search as (Henry David) THOREOUly as I can for the

Right (Edgar Allan) POEm to come along and

It all seems so (William) BLeAkE like

Tasting rotten (Walt) WHITMAN chocolates

My creativity takes it (Gregory) CORSO

As I ponder on about Emily needing DICKenson

I have to make my MARK like TWAIN

And do as I WILLiam and say FAULKner you

 

I WILLiam SHAKEspeare this feeling

I want to have my (Robert) FROSTed cake

And (William Butler) yEATs it too

Mark my (William) WORDSworth


Poetry is for Wimps

September 2, 2011

I hate poetry. It’s for cowards that don’t have the balls to say what things directly and tell you what they really want to say. That’s what I used to think. I thought that for the years I’ve been writing my ramblings and prose because a lot of the standard poets I’d been exposed to were boring. All fluff and evasive.

 

Let me back up. As a teenager I loved poetry. I loved rock music and I especially loved the lyrics. I loved the Beatles. I had no idea what their words meant all of the time but I got something out of it. In the 8th grade I discovered Jim Morrison. Well, the Doors then Jim. I followed the trend of what everyone else was listening to and since there wasn’t much great popular music my Middle School and High School were into classic rock. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, AC DC, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors etc. All great lyrics. I loved the simplicity of some and the complex descriptives of others.

 

Then I found the book called No One Here Gets Out Alive, the biography of Jim Morrison. I fell in love with his persona. I bought every Doors album and learned every lyric. I bought Morrison’s poetry book. Morrison led me to reading William Blake and Dylan Thomas. This was poetry I thought was cool. Many people I know call him a hack. Maybe he was  but so am I and almost every artist, musician, writer, director etc. that I love.

 

Jump ahead to my mid 20s. I lived with a couple of friends and one was into a lot of the art, music and books that I was. He had spent his entire life building up knowledge of beat writers and their influences and punk rock and it’s influences. I grilled him for knowledge and books and records. I learned constantly about writers and bands I heard of but didn’t get into. He was my muse.

 

It was my second childhood of many more to come. I was making art constantly, listening to the Sex Pistols, The New York Dolls, the Velvet Underground, Patti Smith and reading William S Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and eventually Arthur Rimbaud and Jean Genet. It was a learning experience I will never forget. I started writing poetry, lyrics and short stories. They weren’t the best but I was trying to find my voice if I had one.

 

I started showing my art in galleries, coffee shops and book stores. I was actively participating in poetry readings. It was one of my many new beginnings. These artists and my friend have become part of me on a deeper level that is still with me today.

 

Years past and I evolved into other creative activities. Life started taking over like working and paying bills and girlfriends. I kept going. From that point of my life I knew I was an artist and had to create on some level or another.

 

Back to poetry. I went through a period and all I wrote were prose. Mostly simple stories and journals sometimes incorporating heavy descriptives then back to simple writing. I was developing as an artist, a writer, whether I liked it or not. Even when I’m not drwing or writing

 

About 9 or 10 years ago I got heavy into writing and I wrote and wrote non stop sometimes. That’s when I stopped liking poetry. That’s when I came up with my opinions stated in the first paragraph. That’s when I thought all poetry sucks. Then I remembered Charels Bukowski and a lesser known and in my opinion the greatest poet ever, Steven Jesse Bernstein. I prefer their prose but I love the way they write poetry. No rules. Just say what you want however you want.

 

My life’s mission statement is stolen from a poem by Patti Smith’s poem calle Babalogue that she recite before performing her song Rick n Roll Nigger. “I am an American Artist. I have no guilt.” I try and remind myself of that everyday.

 

The reason I was thinking about all of this is because I was at my favorite coffee shop last night for internet access since I don’t have it at home and I discovered that there was an open mic planned for the night. I hate open mics these days. I wasn’t in the mood to hear a bunch of people singing and guitars etc. then I found out it was a poetry and spoken word open mic. I thought this might be more interesting. I over heard some of the people that were there and went back and forth whether they are full of shit or interesting. I went with interesting.

 

I listened and there were some pretty good poets that also knew how to read it aloud. I listened to each poet and considered reading. Once I mentioned it to the older woman sitting next to me she gave me a push. I was actually a little afraid of reading. I picked out a few of more short more powerful and humorous pieces and eventually I read them. I could feel the energy of the room rise with each word that came out of my mouth as I read from laptop. I was nervous but still pulled through. I tried to be humble afterwards knowing how great I was, I am, as people complimented my poems.

 

It was a good night. I felt good having read after years of being out of the scene. It got me to thinking about poetry and my personal history and my mission statement. I am an American Artist. I have no guilt.

 

I might even go back next time.


Suck My Poem (reprise pt1)

August 1, 2011

Sleepless in New Jersey. Catatonic.

 

Careless. Reckless in my mind. My mind.

 

Count my fingers to pass time.

 

Count sheep at 2 in the afternoon.

 

I’d count my failures but there’s too many.

 

I’m ok.

 

You’re ok.

 

Stuper dooper.

 

Hands wander over my belly into my tight shorts.

 

Quick tug to make sure it’s there.

 

Light a cigarette. Ha. Always light a cigarette.

 

Sleep 10 hours straight then go out then come back and take a 3 hour nap and woke up 5 pm yesterday.

 

No sleep yet. Almost. Sort of. Kind of. Ya know? I know

 

Oh . . . I know.

 

Doze. Wake. No focus. No nothing nada.

 

Try to eat. My stomach is bloated from the water and anti stress tea I drank to make up for the coffee and / / /

 

Ever contemplate death mr Goodpeoples? Not me. Well, not by my own hand.

 

Sex is a foreign country. Relationships are memories so far buried it’s like I’m reading someone else’s story.

 

Not hard to understand myself but I always ask why am I like this? I know why. Sometimes I just won’t tell myself.

 

27 trips to the bathroom. Or was it 30?

 

My best thinking is when I am in the bathroom or on my way to the bathroom or on way back from the bathroom.

 

Pay my rent so I can try and sleep. Waiting. Still waiting. Wabbling.

 

Bullets of words blast through my my my my   . . . .  and hit you softly.

 

A parade of sweat falls everywhere. . . anywhere. I’m burning.

 

Tired.

 

Until.

 

What?


I Am . . .

June 29, 2011

I’m fucking riled up and irritated. Anxiety is creeping into my blood stream exploding in my brain and heart. Imaginary convulsions. Public anxiety. Private anxiety. What’s the difference?

 

I feel safe for a while then it happens all over again. One bad apple spoils the fucking tree. Fuck that apple and the tree and the branches and the roots. Fuck you too.

 

Question my capabilities. You threaten my art. You are nothing. What have you done? Who are you?

 

I am Rich Hillen Jr. I am an American artist. I am a dream. I am a nightmare. I am sick. I forget that sometimes. Why does it seem that people bring out the disease? Make it worse.

 

“Snap out of it.” “Force yourself to do it” “ Get over it” “Move on.” “Just do it” “Do this” Do that”

 

Fuck you.

 

I do what I can when I can the best I can and that’s all there is to it. You don’t like it then leave me the fuck alone. Go. Now.

 

I can’t take people’s opinions, advice, recommendations, suggestions, demands, orders or anything you have to say that doesn’t support what I am doing.

 

Look, you don’t know what it’s like to to be me. To be infected with several diseases. Inflicted for life. Like it or not.

 

Even with my problems, even with what you view as me being lazy or rebellious or whatever, I have done more than you can dream of. I’ve been a rock star, an artist, made more money than you, fucked more than you, lived, truly lived more than you ever will.

 

Through my inferiority I see that I am superior to you. I’m not going to let you destroy me.


No Guilt for Fate

June 6, 2010

Fate. God’s Will. What is meant to be is to be. Call it what you want but I believe things happen for a reason. I believe in this more and more every day. Everything that has happened in my life has lead me to who I am now. For better or for worse depending on the day and my spiritual condition or mood. It’s all about today for me, today.

I don’t have any regrets of my past and what I have done or haven’t done. It is what it is. I try to make the best of each moment and when I’m down I just ride it out and it goes away eventually.

My recent unfair job loss has freed my mind up a bit. For now. I’m in a position to move on creatively and try to improve the quality of life for myself. By losing my “job” I got to thinking about what I really want to do. I’ve known it for a long time now but I want to write. I want to write and make a living off of writing stories, novels and poetry. I might get sidetracked here and there but I know deep in my heart what I want to do. What I’m good at.

Recently (but before I lost my job), I wanted to recreate myself as an artist. I’ve been toning things done a little here and there. I created a new blog page online to help promote me as a writer. I was going ot only post the less offensive writings. I’ve been holding back on my online social networking pages as well because family and people I know casually are on there. You know what? I don’t care anymore. To quote the great Popeye “I am what I am”. I did what I did.

I was worried about future employers googling my name and finding out about the xxx movies I’ve made, the serial killer songs I’ve written, recorded and performed, the sexual or offensive stories I’ve written and the “sick” drawings I’ve done. At one point I was considering deleting everything I could off of the internet. That’s impossible. I did what I did. Some things I’m proud of and some things I’m not but it all contributed to making me who I am today. It’s all part of who I am. People will see it and choose if they like it or not from there.

Anyone that knows me well knows that I am perverted, dark, and weird. They also know that I am a decent person that doesn’t revolve my life around my darkness or perversions. There is another side to me.

It took another loss of a meaningless “job” to open my eyes to see who I am again. To quote Patti Smith “I am an American artist and I have no guilt”.

Today I will either create something perverted, dark, or light and funny. Whatever it is I am on a mission to constantly create no matter what anyone else thinks or says about it. Amen.


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