[lit-ideas] Studies In the Poetry of Mike Geary

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 18 May 2008 17:28:05 -0500

Most of you do not know me, I've been a lurker on this and the former Phil-Lit 
list for many years, and for as many years I have been studying the writings of 
Mike Geary.  I've had several articles published in the MLA analyzing his 
imagery which is of vaguely Gnostic origin, and none of which seems to be 
controlled by common sense or even cultural relevance.  I've spoken to Mr. 
Geary personally many times, attempting to extricate from the haphazardry of 
his metaphors some salient theme, but alas, he retreats under questioning into 
meaningless blather about meaninglessness.  
"If I understood what I wrote," he says, "I wouldn't need to write it."  
So, what function does writing play in such a disordered mind, we ask.  
"Writing is like scratching a itch.  We don't care why the itch is there, we 
just scratch hoping it'll go away."  
But doesn't your reading public have a right to expect some kind of reward for 
having read you?  Either some aesthetic or epiphanic experience?
"Certainly they do.  They have a right to expect anything they want to.  So 
So don't you have a duty to give it to them?  
"Nope.  Why should I?  I'm not their mama."  
This is what you're dealing with then, fellow Listers, writings that are as 
meaningful as the shouts of a Tourette's sufferer.  His poetry has all the 
meter of spilled marbles and the rhyme scheme of weeds.  His thought has all 
the profundity of public philosophy, that which sustains everyday life, civil 
ceremonials, secular rites, in short the unwritten norms of interrelationships 
in a bourgeois society.  He recognizes this about himself but doesn't have the 
energy to "do all that studying."  He calls himself a "still-born statuary".  
When asked to enlarge upon that he shrugs, says he doesn't understand it 
himself.   So I wouldn't pay him very much mind.  If you like something of his, 
lucky you.  But don't ever ask him what it really means.  He hasn't a clue.

Yours in critical thought
Roland Bartleby

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