My absolute favorite form of writing is proesy - prosaic poetry, prose poems, free verse - however you wish
to call it.  My best writing comes from just sitting back in my chair with a bottle of bourbon, a pack of smokes,
and blinders over my eyes, so I can just ramble away typing tick tick tick with no idea what’s showing up on the 
page before me.  Maybe it’s a run-on sentence, maybe it’s a bit of enlightment, maybe it’s a diamond buried under 
the mud.  Jack Kerouac made this form of writing popular in the 50’s calling it “spontaneous prose” and he wrote 
his most famous books in that style.  Allen Ginsberg took up the calling of “spontaneous writing” and used it to 
write “Howl”.  Next generation of writers such as Bob Dylan used “spontaneous writing” like a Borg assimilating 
another race to propogate their own.  Cultures collide, serpentine conduit flexing verbal muscle to show off in 
front of conspiritory literate femmes.  No form.  No form.  No FORM.  Just ramblings of the mind, walking down the 
sidewalk at 3am with no where in particular to go, open up a can of Coke and breathe the heavy air of the night 
city in.  Open your mind and lungs to the usefully useless.  Open ears and skin to the dead silence of a nearby 
phone trying to call no-one while everyone is on the receiving end.  Open mouth and fingers as Jonah emerges from 
his whale of indifference and preaching dispelled gospel.  Gotta write it all DOWN!  No time like the present, where
the pretty little Christmas paper you wrap your present in is only paper thin, but beauty is only skin deep.  Paper 
mache.  Paper touche.  Paper trail flowing behind Congressional minds and eyes and nays.  Naysay the truth, but don’t
hold it to yourself.



Whereas my next favorite form of poetry is the
Post-Modern free verse
with no form to follow, no blocks to build
no pyramids to uphold but just flow flow

     flowing gone

With gerrunds geronim
                       o
                         i
                          n
                          g

                             to produce the swirling mist of Avalon

or to
. . . k e r s p l a t . . .

All over genocided ambiguity while Magritte laughs his ass off as we contemplate all the tricks of the trade.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out,
                                                                                hyperventilate
too much too soon for too few with so many
horded whores, but Andy Warhol will do just fine.



Or maybe we can block it in with Poe’s masonry
Who will be the wiser?  Who will really want to
Tangle with the Iron Curtain when pull strings
are already attached?  The Soviet Block doesn’t
need China’s Great Wall to block out capitolism
because Tic-Tac-Toe is a free game.  McCarthy
should like that.  At least I know I do.  Which 
is why I break my blocks to write block poetry



[Time to note that I will be putting more forms up as time progresses.  Gotta have a little patience.
 If there is a particular poetic form or style you wish to see on here, feel free to e-mail me.]