For some time now, people have been asking me if I've written any books, or if I'm a certain one of their favorite authors that I sound like I might be. (The answer on that last one is no -- I just plagiarize extensively from them without their knowledge.) There is something about being anonymous that really makes people wonder if you are secretly, you know, somebody important.
I've thought about this for some time, and I figure now is as good a time as any. I'm ready to come out of the closet. OK, here goes.
In reality, my name is James Octavio 'Hunter' Persimmons, and I am a progressive poet of some repute. You may find the poems of Hunter Persimmons in many collected books of poetry, though mainly in other countries that you've probably never heard of.
Much of my poetry revolves around environmental issues:
For a hundred million years
the ocean has smelled like fish poo.
Now, it is the humans' turn.
Or the battle between man and nature:
Oh, noble sea.
Man will tame your forces,
and put an overpriced fish restaurant
next to you.
Others are searing portraits of American life, worthy of etching in granite monuments all over this nation. It pains me to think that such powerful moments could, someday, be lost.
O secret cinderblock fortress,
keep of keeping,
castle of unwanted crap,
I shall put things in you.
A rock tumbler from my youth,
a knitted blanket.
A lid to a Weber grill,
and what the fuck is this over here?
The ghost of a side table
in desperate need of refinishing
haunts this palace. To keep it,
I shall write a monthly check.
Celebrations of the fragility of life can be found in small, poignant vignettes...
A bird, soaring through winter,
falls into darkness, dies.
Crap, that's the chimney for my wood stove,
you goddamn bird.
Goddamn it, now it's on fire.
I can't even imagine who to call
to fish that thing out.
Sigh, that's still one of my favorites.
My method of working is similar to those of other poetry greats: I mentally compose all my poetry in ancient Hebrew, the only language pure enough for mental thoughts of my own caliber. Then I mentally translate it back to English before writing it down. Alas, while this generally allows a purity of spirit unrivaled by poets content merely to work in languages they actually know, this sometimes results in strange results which were not at all, I think, the central meaning of the original, untranslated piece. I think this happens more often to poets of high genius than they'd like to let on.
For example, the following was supposed to be a poem about the environmental ravages of high-density pig farming, but alas, it turned out almost unintelligible:
A nine hundred foot tall Jesus
told me to tell you that
if you don't give me a million dollars
he's going to kill me.
Curious results, but still; I must remain true to my translation. (Interestingly, in the original Hebrew that was a really ripping haiku.)
Anyway, so now you know my secret. I hope we can keep this between ourselves, as the market for poetry as brilliant as this is quite in the tank, these days, which is why I have been reduced to writing unpaid progressive hit pieces for sites like this one, and generally attempting to find a place where a shockingly unappreciated asthmatic poet curmudgeon with a wooden leg can get in on some good Charlie Rose interviewing action or something like that.
Do you have your own progressive poetry sitting, languishing, unappreciated? You may put it below, if you like. Or if you wish to reveal your own secret identity, you may do so here. Trust me, this thread has no chance in hell of ever being linked to.