publishers
is retired
and living in France.
he’s on his second wife and
lives on
a farm in the country.
every now and then
he sends me
these long, long
e-mails talking about the wine,
the food, the people
and how much he
loves his life
since he
ditched the
first wife, gave up writing
and moved away.
in relative terms
he’s on the near side
of rich...
i...
I. Substitute Teaching
In America, acting is frowned on.
People are looking for passion.
People want to know how much you care.
They expect burn-out.
Two years of hard work is all anyone can manage.
You give your all; you’ll be a star.
They want you to put yourself at their mercy.
Then crash and burn.
Everyone understands.
The...
sometimes strikes
like a bat slicing
through the dark with its wings
cunning and weightless
cutting through like a blade
tearing the flesh apart
exposing the bones
this terrible void
staring from the closet
lying there, between the clothes
slowly sucking at everything like a vacuum
whispers
that a voice
a mere voice
could restore order
and you reach for
the sparrow
and the butterfly
knowing
they will...
And now for your entertainment, all the way from eternity:
THE LITTLE SHITS. Back with us from touring the globe, with
headline performances in Fiji, Bahrain, Albania, and Tbilisi.
Expect nothing and you are bound to find it.
Turn to your neighbors, offer your hand, and ask, male
or female, why their public hairs...
I need to fall asleep to the thought of a pretty girl
the world is gross and doesn't care
the TV mutilates
my vomit comes out before I can get to the toilet
it's always time for my pills
people get out of their cars like assassins
but the pretty girl brings toasted English muffins...
you could break a bone
you can’t see
I decide it’s worth the risk after hours of blackout boredom
maybe the candlelight has gotten her in the mood too
but how to go about asking
hey I’m really bored so you wanna have sex with me?
the neighbors will probably hear!
don't knock the candle over!!
I...
another fucking boring night
of light blue ripples of poolwater
dumb white lights
over steam haze black night snooze
and what's left of the cheap beer
my wife's been passed out for three hours
I drank the good wine
in the sun of the afternoon
that feels like a thousand days ago
I'm listening to some lounge chair...
I’m asked to ignore too much…look the other way.
In fact, I should call my poems empty poems.
“Never-mind poetry,” that’d be a good name.
I’ll write poems about nothing. Poems that say
absolutely nothing but say it well. I’ll write poems
like Rothko’s paintings of voids, great hollow,
pulsating works of art, undulating existential...
Those who say
they have no regrets
are fucking liars
& the people
who believe them
are fucking stupid.
Regret free,
fucking liars lie
to themselves
because they are so
fucked up they can’t tell
themselves the truth—
that they are in
fucking denial
about being
pretentious liars
& fucking cowards
afraid to admit
they regret their
fucking actions
& for being so stupid.
Do I have regrets?
I could go...
