Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Doing It

I know I haven’t posted anything in a while; I’ve been busy fiddling with the word and being an asshole in other countries. Anyways, here’s a little taste of what it’s like being a writer these days. For those of you that don’t write, this’ll be a whiff of a new flower. And for those of you that do write, well shit, you should probably click this off and go back to it.

Last Luxury

When I decided to

Pitch my future in the toilet

And write

I knew I’d have to take

Some serious downgrades

From my cushy


And sure enough

Since moving to Prague

To really do it

I’ve had to eat Ramen noodles

For weeks on end,

Live in shitboxes

With assholes that would

Curl your toes,

And fuck women so ugly

They could melt the warts

Off a leper,


There’s one facet of my former life

That I refuse to compromise on

And that’s

Red wine,

I don’t care if I have to

Scratch the utilities

And jerk off

To the crickets,

I’m getting that bottle

Of 2010 Isosceles Reserve

And sipping it from a paper cup

While the lights



Holy Moly

It’s always the way …

I don’t write for

Three or four days

And I feel like

I’m finished,

Like my juice

Has dried up

And my hands

Are nothing but

Dead mackerel

Hanging from my

Wrists …

Then one day

I’ll be pressing the head

Of my penis

Down into the toilet

So I can urinate on the crap

I’ve just made, and


A needle of fire

Will strike the center

Of my forehead

And I’ll go sprinting

To the computer,


With piss dripping from

My genitals,

So I can lock down

The fading words of

Some unknown



Matter of Style

When I first started

Sending my poems

To the magazines

I only got rejections,

They were short rejections

And I got so many

I quit reading them all through

And instead sought out the word


In each letter,

Then tossed it

In the trash

Now I have a few things published

But mostly I still get rejections

Though these are

Longer rejections

That are filled with phrases


“Your poems have heart, but …”

“Your poems are powerful, but …”

“We really, really like your poems, but …”

These half-compliments

Are invariably followed by

Statements claiming my

“Style” just isn’t right

For such-and-such magazine,

At first I wondered at this

But after reading hundreds of poems

In these magazines,

Poems about

Sipping white wine on sunlit verandas


Cuddling a loved one in warm bathwater


Laughing out loud on family getaways to Florida


Merriment in life despite having recently lost a gerbil

I’ve come to realize

Exactly what it is about my


That these motherfucking nitwits

Don’t like


One Word Novel

The master wrote

His first novel

In a week

At 18

His second novel

In a month

At 22

His third novel

In a year

At 30

And his fourth, fifth, and sixth novels,

In 3 years, 5 years, and 7 years,

At the ages of 40, 50, and 60,


Each of these novels

Was shorter than

The next

And when he finally started

His masterpiece

At 75

It took him 25 years

To write it

And then he


Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.

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