In defense of publicity stunts

I received a stern rap on the knuckles the other day, from an old friend, regarding my impending establishment of a World Record for longest reading by a poet of his (or her) own works).

It seems this old friend thinks it unseemly.

I agree, just as I find advertising jingles, poetry slams and most open microphone readings a perversion of the true faith.

But I have always been a bit of a subversive, seeking to change (or destroy) from within that which requires my attention as I define it. In this case I seek to preserve my soul by working with the tools at hand to reshape the dungeon I am bound to.

I do not think anyone will confuse what I am about to do with releasing a book of sonnets or villanelles, in terms of keeping the faith. It is a publicity stunt, pure and simple, playing to twin strengths; my ability to speak, at length, without fatigue, and the enormity of my catalog (nobody said I wasn't an extremely well-endowed author).

Were I to be true to my faith as a poet, I should right now be holed up in some attic corner in Venice, alternately making feral love to some woman who has drawn me into her divinity and recording my passion for her as the author of a new Gospel of a newly discovered goddess.

But I am, for the time, trapped in world of men and money, shoehorned into a mould I did not desire and certainly taking little pleasure in it. Until such time as some insane philantrophist decides to burn away my shackles, I will do what I must to at least keep myself in the realm of the prayer of the hope of the dream.

As Prince Nelson Rogers once said, so ably: "4 those who know the number and don't call? Hmph, fuck all y'all."

I am strongest at the point of death, bravest at the edge of despair, truest in the bosom of a lie and sharpest when blunted by faith betrayed.

Note a recent trend in my blogs? Yes, I am re-inflating my will, rekindling my couer rage and flexing muscles I have allowed to atrophy in sorrow and shame.

I would have been happy to have been a normal guy with a normal life and a normal IQ and no talent more profound or elaborate than knowing how to unstop a toilet. Believe me, the first question on my infinite list of questions when I cross over will be "Why me?"

The perverse thing is, I know the answer. I just want to hear it.

But in the end the reading will be to improve books sales, raise awareness and add a few more weblinks to the thousands that already connect to my name, bringing new readers into the fold, new potential converts to the religion that is poetry.

If this is unseemly, then the work of every evangelist ever born was unseemly. And while there are those who perverted or wasted their calling...

I trust that I am not amoung them.