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
Upbringing,
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,
Still,
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
Flicker
….
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
HOLY MOLY!
A needle of fire
Will strike the center
Of my forehead
And I’ll go sprinting
To the computer,
Unwiped,
With piss dripping from
My genitals,
So I can lock down
The fading words of
Some unknown
Angel
….
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
“Unfortunately”
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
Like:
“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
And
Cuddling a loved one in warm bathwater
And
Laughing out loud on family getaways to Florida
And
Merriment in life despite having recently lost a gerbil
I’ve come to realize
Exactly what it is about my
“Style”
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,
Respectively
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
Died
....
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.
