Oh, I don't know. What's in a name, anyway? And what is identity? Who am I? Am I Michael Fowke, or Terry Sparks, or Jack Pickles, or Smokin' Joe Frazier?
And who are you, dear reader? Are you who you say you are? Are you who you think you are? And who is Keith Busby?
Rimbaud once said: I is an other. (His italics). I think I'm starting to know what he meant. He also said that you must make the soul into a monster.
O Rimbaud, my soul IS a monster! Yes, it is! I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood, just like you asked me to. Is the money mine yet? And did you find the money; the money you abandoned poetry for? Running guns in Africa! O Rimbaud, you fool! Why did you turn your back on your pages of gold?
Wherever you are now, heaven or hell, I hope you approve of this blog. After all, one must be absolutely modern.
