Poetry is steeped in emotion. Creativity comes from emotional highs and lows. I like to write when the weather is cold and it is raining and I am moody. I would love to be able to throw down the verse when I am up and feeling no pain, but I am too busy having fun! I write when I am pissed, or wailing injustice, or gloomy. 
Ginsberg liked to keep it political. In his days as hippie dude flower power beatnik carry-over, there was plenty to scream about. Brautigan
kept it kooky, but you didn't need to be a professor to understand the underlying message of dissent. Poets are an emotional bunch. They are random, bipolar, insane, disgruntled, depressed, searching. This war has people on edge. Poets are back at work. There is a ton on work being produced and shared and printed and recited at open mike nights around the globe. Most of it is lousy, but some can cut a gems. I remember writing about the first Gulf War seven years after the operation. Saddam had invaded Kuwait and Americans kicked Iraq's ass back across their border in a matter of what seemed like hours.
Storm
We were standing out by the trucks
in the parking lot
of the Stockton
March Lane McDonald’s
listening to the radio
reports
on the first US air strike
on Baghdad.
Some of the guys were
cheering, shouting,
dancing the jig,
while others
crowded in closer
to the pickups
to hear better
as traffic
rolled along in it’s
normal afternoon routine.
I’d fly 6,000 miles to smoke a Camel
And I remember feeling nervous,
unsure
of what would happen
after the strike was over,
what would happen the next day.
There were rumors of DRAFT
and politician promises
that "This will not be another Vietnam."
There were discussions
about SCUD missiles
and nerve gas.
At home, I watched the first
footage out of Iraq –
the shooting star
tracers of antiaircraft artillery,
the night vision targets
of a sound asleep enemy,
military strongholds
and reported shelters
of the madman, Saddam.
Later we were told by decorated
military spokesmen
that the assault
was a success
and that ground troops
were being readied
for action.
I closed my eyes
and wished it all away,
but nothing happened,
and it’s still there
like an infected wound.
We were standing out by the trucks
in the parking lot
of the Stockton
March Lane McDonald’s
listening to the radio
reports
on the first US air strike
on Baghdad.
Some of the guys were
cheering, shouting,
dancing the jig,
while others
crowded in closer
to the pickups
to hear better
as traffic
rolled along in it’s
normal afternoon routine.
I’d fly 6,000 miles to smoke a Camel
And I remember feeling nervous,
unsure
of what would happen
after the strike was over,
what would happen the next day.
There were rumors of DRAFT
and politician promises
that "This will not be another Vietnam."
There were discussions
about SCUD missiles
and nerve gas.
At home, I watched the first
footage out of Iraq –
the shooting star
tracers of antiaircraft artillery,
the night vision targets
of a sound asleep enemy,
military strongholds
and reported shelters
of the madman, Saddam.
Later we were told by decorated
military spokesmen
that the assault
was a success
and that ground troops
were being readied
for action.
I closed my eyes
and wished it all away,
but nothing happened,
and it’s still there
like an infected wound.
I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ABOUT
this war. I can't commit myself to a poetic burst. It is like it has sucked the dissent out of me. I have been against the war since it's first thought. I have no alternative to offer, but I remain opposed. It is still here like an infected wound. Others have been more successful. I leave the job to them. I am in no hurry. I wrote Storm in 1997. I printed it in my book Nevada Falls and the Stranger There With Arms Outstretched in 2002. The poem is now 10 years old. Iraq ain't going anywhere soon. I figure I have time.
Who does not like to get a postcard? No one. Everyone loves to get a card. My mother, when we were young and on our annual road trip, used to yell in a long continuous sing-song voice, "
These images send my eyes to spasms. The eyes and limbs and petals and planes and bombs and guns and bugs and noses and nooses….and…and…and…
