Mimicking his ardor, his fire… his poetic progression in speech.

More than a deconstructive effort, this is just appreciation.  When back in the classroom, that will be a pillar.  Why does everything have to be theory-thrown?

And… more poetry.  And if it’s an essay, make it poetic.  Make it your own fucking music.  Staple and stamp your conviction and sense of the world around you.

Now the professor is alive—  REBORN, like I said to someone the other day.  I’m not going too be stopped, even by me, and certainly no corporate alligator-grin lusus naturae.  I’m back where I was.  What I never should have left. 

Even with my mood, the first thing I did this morning was type.  State in my POET’S FIRE.  Becoming more Poe than Kerouac, or Beat.  It’s obvious, maybe it’s age.  I don’t know, and honestly I don’t care.

Lecture on Rooms…

Lecture on Passion…

Lecture, or Essay, on Character Fire.

It is happening, because I will it to.  Anyone reading, it is truly that simple.