I don’t want to write another poem about going to the bathroom.
Someone said to me the other day when talking about poets in Cleveland, Ohio that we’re all pretty much at the same level of writing ability. I could not believe my ears and I could not disagree with this person more. They also said none of us were the next Kerouac to which I thought there already was one Jack Kerouac why does there need to be another.
Despondent to my lethargy
Despondent to this inoperable tumor I’m being led to believe is my human spirit.
I’m despondent to the thought of writing the next great American novel like Stanford or Brautigan did and then being forgotten or worse yet misplaced in the annals of popular culture.
Forget we ever had this conversation. I’m going to go suck on an exhaust pipe and pray to God it kills me or at the very least takes me temporarily out of commission.
I’m through writing about my bodily functions and how they do or do not agree with me.
I thought sharing was caring until realizing no one cares and that I was basically sharing with a bunch of imaginary people I had made up in both my heart and head.
I thought we cared about each other until you started acting all haughty about money I supposedly owed you and then took three hundred dollars out of my bank account.
I don’t feel like writing a poem about someone, anyone taking me to the cleaners.
When asked what my next move will be I do my best to say very little and never look my assailant in the eye.
Oftentimes you are being raked over the coals even when you don’t realize it’s happening. All of a sudden your bum is sore and everyone is pointing at you like you’re on fire.
I’m desperately unhappy.
Forget you ever made the effort to read this poem and I’ll forgive you for your trespasses the next time you are on your knees putting someone, anyone into your mouth just to pass the time and make you feel even the least little bit alive.
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