by Clem Kilroy
The problem with a lot of poetry is Smokey's reverse rotation
engine. You can narrow it even further—the non-smoking tire. Genius is
childbirth. Our words are few. Everything is something else because we
cannot acknowledge our agreement. We cannot see what the transit bus is.
Everything in nature, including ourselves, is how water runs downhill.
The Virgin Birth, of course, is Kerouac's “unspeakable wisdom of the individual.”
If all my days are done, I'd say it this way, “You'll die trying.”
Poetry and science are the same thing, except poetry assumes we already
know it. In the first turn at Indy, Stan's car broke in half, and it flew
through the air. Most amazing is he had the presence of mind, with his
steering wheel gone with the front half of his car, to wrap his fingers
in the shoulder harness. Eddie said if Stan ever needed to land on him
again, he was welcome. In other words, all the poetic lives. All. If you
ever saw one of Sonny's Pro Mod cars launch, you'd understand Smokey's
engine a lot better.
Mutants don't want to read what they are sure of; they want to read what
they suspect. Only a few will read what will take their lives.
Out of pure fear, fundamentalists agree upon the most popular lie of the
past. They cannot accept Unpredicatble Future. Sadder still, Smokey died
this year. Stan was thrown through the windshield of his truck in a head-on
collision on a desolate road in Australia—killed this year, not wearing
Poets love words because it is a non-invasive environment. We are ill
because the tiger is no longer in the bush. A reverse engine throws the
crank in the opposite direction. Stan was always quick, even as he talked
in front of you, he was planning several turns ahead. The thing is, quit
whining, and write the poem that will stop war. Don't change the finish
Smokey's engine threw the crank in the direction of the inside wall. I
owe my children the best upbringing, and a world in which they feel safe.
What separates men and women today is lack of imagination. The tiger made
us smell the air, listen to molecules landing on leaves, and see the world
that thrives in shadow. The tiger made us our best, and took the rest.
Chris said it was the greatest race he ever saw, and he's over 70 and
has been going to races every week, and watching a bunch on television
every weekend. We are tumbleweed, blown by the wind. The big become football
players. Good spellers become writers. Everybody lives as smog, until
will. Smokey had Stan come to Florida to train him on a reverse rotation
Poetry has absolutely nothing to do with what people say it is. Death
comes to brand you, finally and forever, as defeated. I will tell my children
I don't think this has to happen. It is hard to overcome the fundamentalists
because there can rarely be an equally opposing solidarity about the future.
The only thing that exists is that which is done on will alone. Those
who do not participate in will are ghosts. A reverse rotation engine will
bring you naturally into the corner.
If Stan drove normal, he'd put her in the wall. We want art to threaten
our lives. Women demand creativity from men, as much as men demand action.
We want to be alert this second. Poets can't expect fans to understand
how the race engine works. It's not about human history. All poetry is
based upon what the transit bus was before we agreed it was a transit
bus. The Irish Famine was not about lack of food, but politics. Profound
Fun is rare for the same reason. Women and men get bored for different
Stan visited Smokey during Bike Week, because Stan had a world
class bitchin Harley. My children hold me responsible for the world.
Stan couldn't qualify because a goddamned oil pump kept the car overheating.
But, he wouldn't give up the car. He'd have to qualify her in a heat
race. I think poets ought to write the way Stan took Turn 1 at Indy.
Poets would write immeasurably better if tigers read their poetry…or,
there'd be a lot less poets. They race to put the tiger back in the
Smokey's reverse rotation engine was the only one out there, and it
won the race. Stan had started dead last. Coming out of Turn 4, you
could see the smoke burning off Page's right rear tire. Stan had better
tires at the end of the race. God bless you, Smoke. God bless you, Stan.
A nation without poetry never means what it says. Simple. Poets: Win
the race. Lust for a checkered flag. Page got hit in the head by a sprint
car. Didn't kill him, but it hurt him pretty bad. If it takes a reverse
rotation engine, poets have to write it. It's a poem when it becomes