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jrigsbee (12787482)

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J.R.'s Journal

Name:

J.Rigsbee

Birthdate:

1980-06-16

LJ Talk:

jrigsbee

livejournal.com (Jabber)

Bio:

An anxious cipher in a vast frosty marble-

The name is J.R.

I was made in Japan, Born in North Carolina, Lived in Germany til 5, Texas til 8, then settled with my people here in Massachusetts. I am a loser by definition, though my gray matter and spirit defies little boxes and clandestine names. For instance- I am essentially a bum living under my parents' loving scrutiny at 27, yet the richest man is a wealthy, affluent bum. If one considers science, you have to take into consideration past influences, genetic information, unconscious impulses, perhaps will... not to mention the entire evolutionary tale of creepy crawlies, otters, ostriches and apes, the enigmatic amebae climbing from the placental primordial fluid: you must think of these things whenever you look into a ragged beggar's eyes. If you are a Hindu, lost in the Maya of phallic towers and oceanic wombs cradling shorelines, mirrors of blue expanse above or the luminous riddle of dusk, you must consider that in your heart God breathes, setting in motion within and without the eternal dance of lila, the play of light beneath the folds of a billowing sari wrapped about the cosmos. You must consider that everything is true and false when you think of me, and please, do yourself a favor and know your own sanctity is just the same- just this once and never again do we form in this way. Tragicomic, then, that we dreamt ourselves up just to bump each other off with our mindless wars vomited on televisions.

I am a work in progress. Sometimes I think I will not live long. Sometimes I think one never dies. I've wondered long if I am a poet, thinking that only one published or genius can be considered for the role. I've received nothing but rejections for my sentimental words that spring from me in fits and starts, and I am FAR from being a genius. But the greatest poet's soul could've been a withered stillborn. Some soldier out there is writing his own eulogy. some child has a developmental disorder and wants to sing of the robbins outside the window of his group home, but the words are dizzy as drunken butterflies. A youth aspired only to find himself old and without a roof, the bum whose muse has got drunk, again, and left. A strong defiant woman conforms to the suburban symphony, her ocean parched, her ink pot dipped and dry. It is in my heart to write, I will try to make you laugh and cry, because I can, for me, for them. I write for the mad man and woman, dreamers, would-be poets and suicides, lovers, fuckers, beggars, the defiant fallen figures of old, I will try my best to put in neat my epigraph on the dead dry dream tree of Arcady, find me there draining the cup of trembling, devouring forbidden fruit with wise serpents eyeing me quizzically.

So poet or loser, it amounts to about the same.

"What's your road, man? Rainbow road, guppie road, holyboy road, madman road, it's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?" -Kerouac, "On the Road."

Interests:

4: though i've little luck, with either, women, writing

Schools:

None listed

Friends: