Is Blogging Creative Writing?

 

I’m a guy who didn’t go to college who writes anyway. I don’t know shit about MA programs at universities. 

I’m uneducated but people like my stuff, I get 1000s of hits on my blog. 

Every  body wants to write.

Write about your life, pissing in the alley as a tranny walks by watching

After a gummy my mind wants to write like Cy Twombly

draws and squabbles with pencils on shopping bags.

flow of consciousness shit—

many people prefer to sleep with their toes out and exposed to the air, others bury their feet in the blanket.

All the problems of the world will be solved.

I was one of the kids who drank out of a house hose.

sex is fast movie so you have to pay attention or you will miss something.

do you love your sex partner 100%, or let’s say 66%?  Do you feel like laying in bed planning life, or marriage, after you've gotten you rocks off?

Lucowski you’re a blogger —  if you had what the MA crowd has, you'd write short stories, novels, haiku, plays. People with MAs are cut from higher stuff.

Let me give you some advice Henry, if you don't have a MA, don't write, or write if you want, but burn your work with the leaves in the background.

What's a fucking story? I'll write one for you — 

Julie and Dicky went to see Gone With the Wind, as they shared popcorn, watching darkies brutully whipped by southern whitebread.

Dicky gets a woody and realizes he wants to marry Julie, so he says?

Julie, I love you, will you marry me?

Julie says yes, joy radiates throughout the theater. 

Sad to say, the Gods didn’t care about Dicky’s majestic proposal to Julie. The Gods hate people. 

The mighty divinity laugh at the neopyte lovers, splashing mead in the clouds, knowing Julie is going to fuck the whole thing up when she tells Dicky,

marriage is a big step in our lives. Let’s have a big wedding, with a band, and lot’s of expensive booze. We can get a wedding planner, they’re not much, 

Dicky farts and excuses himself to go to the bathroom, instead, when he gets to concessions he runs for dear life, Dicky never saw Julie again.

Is that a story ending?

I know an old pharmacist in Harlem, Art, His pharmacy is made of wood, hardwood floors, cabinets, ceiling fans, there's a  cedar Dime Store Indian at the front door.

Art's a voodoo man from Baton Rouge

He has a complete line of voodoo paraphernalia for his Wigan customers— Mugwort, Jasmine Root, Lucky hand Root. 

And Rastafarian and Wall Street Executives go to Art’s for Thai stick, fruit flavored ganja, Humboldt Country, and so on.

Louis Armstrong was Old Al’s regular customer in the early 40s, the great one bought weed and Seena natural laxative.  

Weed for Louie was like junk for Keith Richards, it fogged the bullshit of society keeping the two feeling safe inside.

When I listen to expansive music I wonder how the fuck they can do it? Coltrane, Monk, Charlie Watts, Bill Evans, Art Pepper. 

Where's the sound come from?. The august ones are gifted, not by the Gods, it comes from somewhere else, inside them.

If your work has something special a publisher will contact you.  As for publishers, I was reincarnated for a day as a cockroach and Marshal Schuster stepped on me, I was in the urinal.

Hey Mr. Publisher man, I got hundreds of short stories, there not all good, but some are great, Mr. Publisher man says, 

Go fuck yourself cockroach. Don't bother us.

This is a blog, there is no storyline or plot in it. 

Short story writers, journalists, novelists, playwrights, and haikus are the royalty of the writing world.

Neither Bukowski nor Kerouac were hippies, they hatted hippies. They didn’t care about the Grateful Dead and neither had a MA.

Kerouac wrote at his mother's house in Massachusetts, and Buk wrote in his tree-lined ranch house in Santa Ana. 

Bukowski was more productive than Kerouac. 

Kerouac would go on benders, then write for long periods, while Buk would write every day, drunk or not.

My best friend Andy told me to stay on anti-depressants. He’s my voice of reason.

In that I don't have a MA, I will call myself poet blogger.

That's it for writing retired on applications, now I'll sign  Lucowski the poet blogger.

I want to end this work with an MA-certified ending, a summation if you wish.

You all know my life has been a train wreck of romantic episodes, death-defying espionage, and killer clowns.

But I made it— today I drive the kiddy train at Coney Island.