In1978, I self-published my first poetry book, Beacon, to an enthusiastic reception of some uninformed who didn't realize, fearing rejection, I had never submitted my musings to somber publishers. WHEE! Since Mohamed Alithen Cassius Clay announced that he had written The world's shortest poem, I have known that I would be a poet. ME? Everyday, hundreds-of-thousands of seemingly sane souls satisfy some innate need to bare their concealed character via atrocious alliteration or in delusional doggerel. As in Kris Kristofferson's early works, the marvelous magic masquerades within sweet musical lyrics, providing us with eternal material transcending generational barriers. Even if none but we are ever allowed to examine our hidden essence, an inner longing is unleashed only to be squished should we presume to be published. And he was said at that time to be, The world's most widely read poet. Even more well received, I was enjoying the affirmative attention of a metropolitan newspaper poetry editor insisting that I co-chair a college invitational symposium for wannabe poets with the State Poet LaTourette. To the accolade of local yokel fans, the following year, I followed up with Imperfections, Verse by Russ Miles, songs and thoughts reflecting who, where, and what I was at that time in my life. My books selling well, a youthful, insatiable ego was being satisfactorily stroked. What if an unforgiving God held me accountable for my wanton actions or the impact of foisting my unholy understandings upon innocents? Frightening purgatorialor worse reprisal prospects triggered instantaneous actions. I continue learning that God is so forgiving. How He can inspire good to come of all things. Even some of my old songs are once more awaiting discovery thanks to Red Haring, the song-writing, truck-driving character appearing between the FSBO covers. Red's songs emerge to stimulate reflections within Brooklyn Best, the no-saint heroine, real estate agent with whom he becomes romantically involved. They end up working together to unravel some horrific homicides in this reality based mystery thriller novel. It's easier than you think. Removing all remaining copies from the marketplaces which I had developed for distribution, I stopped penning poetry for the next twenty-five years. Then, a strange thing happened. After all, Rod McKuen, suffering countless rejections, had self-published. His triumphant proclamation evoking shivers within my troubled teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme. Well, I am very sorry, but I am one of the fellows who won't give into this new era love. The boy, on the other hand, doesn't have that shiver anymore in his voice, he's a stable person that shouldn't let loose his lack of confidence. I'm not going to exaggerate this, by inserting a balcony in this act of poetry.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 7th, 2012 at 5:07 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.