Love is a gorgeous
mutual hopelessness.
On the 27th of March, this year I wrote:
Today I drove toward the sunrise
as it rose over metro airport skies
with the airplanes shrouded in clouds.
And I found an old CD by The Microphones
turned up the stereo
and listened in as Phil strummed an old guitar
loudly in my mother's car.
Earlier...
the neighbors tree waved at me and I'm sitting in the grass watching new leaves of spring move with the westward breeze while I wait for Julie. Now the clock, it's a little after 3 on a Thursday and the dog plays with a pink Frisbee. I have iced tea and the sun is shinny, and this time around it's so difficult to believe another winter is gone and deceased.
For you spent the better part of your teens
and twenties
to this point
looking for the love of your dreams.
A few times,
you were so sure
that you found her.
Simply replace all the above 'you's' with 'I's' and 'your's' with 'my's' because this is my life.
And also:
All of my closest friends are songs I've once loved
All of the great musicians
who wrote them
found comfort in
killing themselves
Goodnight, "Apple Bed"
May you sleep soundly.
So they question me, and I don't have the answers,
I say, "This thing; This love. It's an incurable cancer."
and may we all suffer the consequences.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Fake Falling in Love
I wrote a novella a little while back and I just started typing it out and editing it. This is how it starts.
Fake Falling in Love
December 20 - 2007
The sleep that I've missed since she's been back is well worth the pain that seeps into the back sides of my eye balls.
Today a pretty girl stood me up. Or maybe just disappeared for a bit. I should have known better and saw it coming. This is the reason why I stopped talking to her in the first place.
She would be extremely sweet to me for a period of time then without warning or reason she would neglect me. She'd not answer my calls and not call me and I wouldn't see or hear from her for a long time.
Anyway- This is the story of me and Marie.
The very first night that I met her she had me hooked. I was living in Warren Michigan at the time with a few of my friends. I worked the night-shift at an all night diner in the neighboring town where I grew up called Hazel Park. It was around this period of my life that I started frequenting a restaurant called National Coney Island to get away from the restaurant I worked in. Even though I worked at a restaurant and got comped on a lot of the food I'd eat there, I would literally wake up in the evening, drive 5 miles to eat dinner at National then drive 5 miles to my place of work when I finished.
National Coney Island was a chilli dog and milk shake joint that was fairly cheap and had a wait staff that was friendly in the most honest of ways. They waitress would ask how you're doing, and you'd say fine and ask her the same thing and she'd say, "Shitty. Tired. And I don't want to be here."
I was very fond of that. It was that attitude along with the women who held it that sparked my very unhealthy addiction of paying girls to be nice to me through the form of coffee drinking and tipping well. As an aside, I am currently at National right now, writing down theses old thoughts and explanations nearly four years after I met Marie.
It was nearly on accident, or coincidence how Marie and I met. Then again if you analyze and break down anything enough you can write it off a coincidence. No matter.
It was any normal late evening of that year and my friend Jason and I were hungry so we went up to the Coney Island. As we exited my truck and headed toward the double doors two young girls were heading to the same doors from another side of the parking lot. I forget which one of us held the door open for the girls, but one of the girls, namely Marie returned the favor and held the second set of doors for Jason and I. Because of this, the four of us were all approaching the "PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED" sign at the same time. Those few awkward steps and collective dance from the door to the sign was short lived for J and I breezed right past the sign while our female cha-cha partners we're left on the dance floor.
During the dance there were many exchanged glances between us four. Marie was wide eyed and seemed to be animalistally darting from one place to the next as opposed to walking.
I pretended not to notice or care, for culture at this point had taught me that to be cool was to be apathetic and reckless in the same breath. I had just turned twenty and thought that being a calm, pseudo-thoughtful, liberal, atheist was ground breaking shit; not to mention I was growing a huge beard in protest of societies standards as well as being newly broken hearted off my high school and beyond sweetie of 5 years.
Secretly though, I was hooked.
Jason and I sat down and talked in depth of what just happened using mostly facial expressions and little dialog. The girls were still standing by the sign: waiting to be seated.
"Pretty girls, eh?" Jason said after a few seconds of discussing what had just occurred with out the aid of spoken language.
"Oh yeah," I said sounding sarcastic but being very serious. "Real pretty," I continued.
"Pretty girls man," he said again, this time with a slight sigh of relief.
It should be said that for whatever reason Jason and I worked fairly hard at not being in situations that involved pretty girls that we didn't know personally. The half minute cha-cha and hard looks we experienced at the door was enough for us to run home after dinner and tell everyone we talked to about the situation. Gloating over the smallest contact.
Perhaps being raised in a podunk suburb town that all the surrounding towns spit upon verbally, metaphorically, and otherwise had forced us into a walled off disassociation from anyone who wasn't from Hazel Park. Yet this feeling of segregation gave us strange pride. The urge to belong, to be liked and recognized was lost because somehow the feeling of being below everyone else made us see ourselves as above the rest of the world.
Fake Falling in Love
December 20 - 2007
The sleep that I've missed since she's been back is well worth the pain that seeps into the back sides of my eye balls.
Today a pretty girl stood me up. Or maybe just disappeared for a bit. I should have known better and saw it coming. This is the reason why I stopped talking to her in the first place.
She would be extremely sweet to me for a period of time then without warning or reason she would neglect me. She'd not answer my calls and not call me and I wouldn't see or hear from her for a long time.
Anyway- This is the story of me and Marie.
The very first night that I met her she had me hooked. I was living in Warren Michigan at the time with a few of my friends. I worked the night-shift at an all night diner in the neighboring town where I grew up called Hazel Park. It was around this period of my life that I started frequenting a restaurant called National Coney Island to get away from the restaurant I worked in. Even though I worked at a restaurant and got comped on a lot of the food I'd eat there, I would literally wake up in the evening, drive 5 miles to eat dinner at National then drive 5 miles to my place of work when I finished.
National Coney Island was a chilli dog and milk shake joint that was fairly cheap and had a wait staff that was friendly in the most honest of ways. They waitress would ask how you're doing, and you'd say fine and ask her the same thing and she'd say, "Shitty. Tired. And I don't want to be here."
I was very fond of that. It was that attitude along with the women who held it that sparked my very unhealthy addiction of paying girls to be nice to me through the form of coffee drinking and tipping well. As an aside, I am currently at National right now, writing down theses old thoughts and explanations nearly four years after I met Marie.
It was nearly on accident, or coincidence how Marie and I met. Then again if you analyze and break down anything enough you can write it off a coincidence. No matter.
It was any normal late evening of that year and my friend Jason and I were hungry so we went up to the Coney Island. As we exited my truck and headed toward the double doors two young girls were heading to the same doors from another side of the parking lot. I forget which one of us held the door open for the girls, but one of the girls, namely Marie returned the favor and held the second set of doors for Jason and I. Because of this, the four of us were all approaching the "PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED" sign at the same time. Those few awkward steps and collective dance from the door to the sign was short lived for J and I breezed right past the sign while our female cha-cha partners we're left on the dance floor.
During the dance there were many exchanged glances between us four. Marie was wide eyed and seemed to be animalistally darting from one place to the next as opposed to walking.
I pretended not to notice or care, for culture at this point had taught me that to be cool was to be apathetic and reckless in the same breath. I had just turned twenty and thought that being a calm, pseudo-thoughtful, liberal, atheist was ground breaking shit; not to mention I was growing a huge beard in protest of societies standards as well as being newly broken hearted off my high school and beyond sweetie of 5 years.
Secretly though, I was hooked.
Jason and I sat down and talked in depth of what just happened using mostly facial expressions and little dialog. The girls were still standing by the sign: waiting to be seated.
"Pretty girls, eh?" Jason said after a few seconds of discussing what had just occurred with out the aid of spoken language.
"Oh yeah," I said sounding sarcastic but being very serious. "Real pretty," I continued.
"Pretty girls man," he said again, this time with a slight sigh of relief.
It should be said that for whatever reason Jason and I worked fairly hard at not being in situations that involved pretty girls that we didn't know personally. The half minute cha-cha and hard looks we experienced at the door was enough for us to run home after dinner and tell everyone we talked to about the situation. Gloating over the smallest contact.
Perhaps being raised in a podunk suburb town that all the surrounding towns spit upon verbally, metaphorically, and otherwise had forced us into a walled off disassociation from anyone who wasn't from Hazel Park. Yet this feeling of segregation gave us strange pride. The urge to belong, to be liked and recognized was lost because somehow the feeling of being below everyone else made us see ourselves as above the rest of the world.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Hazel Park
Forced your eyes closed
but mine work still.
There's still clothes
in the bedroom closet.
You left the the door open
oh, what for?
That old belt that you never wore
now you
use it.
[Please don't let me be]
[Please don't let me be another]
The old kitchen
the wallpaper torn.
New baby
in utero.
The cat's asleep
on the couch.
New smell settles
all over
the house.
[Please don't let me be another]
[Please don't let me be another small town]
No note
nothing is left in this place.
Except snapshots
we've yet to take.
And the T-shirt
that you had on.
In a black
trash bag
on the front lawn.
[Please don't let me be another small town]
[Please don't let me be another small town suicide]
but mine work still.
There's still clothes
in the bedroom closet.
You left the the door open
oh, what for?
That old belt that you never wore
now you
use it.
[Please don't let me be]
[Please don't let me be another]
The old kitchen
the wallpaper torn.
New baby
in utero.
The cat's asleep
on the couch.
New smell settles
all over
the house.
[Please don't let me be another]
[Please don't let me be another small town]
No note
nothing is left in this place.
Except snapshots
we've yet to take.
And the T-shirt
that you had on.
In a black
trash bag
on the front lawn.
[Please don't let me be another small town]
[Please don't let me be another small town suicide]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
NOTE: I'm starting to re-write an old short story. Here's how it starts.
Swamp Things and Lilly Pads
It started with a story: heard by me and my cousin and told by another. A tall drink of water spatting and spewing this yarn about screwing this homeless homosexual out of two dollars by the vague promise of promiscuous behavior on the cross town bus earlier that week. The story, like many of the stories the tall drink of water told came to an odd halt with no real ending, just a sigh and a shrug when we arrived at a park in Warren. Needless to say, sometimes when people go through weird or rough spot in their life, that spot lasts for years and years.
At the time, and now, I'm not sure what the name of the park is, but we called it the Warren Trails. There were two places we called the Warren Trails, which sometimes lead to confusion when you were meeting someone there. The first Warren Trails were actually in Madison Heights, on the edge of Warren somewhere, but we didn't know that when we named it. They (the trails) were behind a hospital just northwest of the cross streets Eleven Mile and Dequindre.
The Warren Trails we were visiting that day were just off a park south of Nine Mile between Dequindre and Ryan Rd. And this is not to say that either of these "trails" were actually trails, but they were small, hidden wooded areas in the middle of lower-middle class suburbia.
Us three, The Water, my cousin, and me went to the park to spend some time outdoors and to take in the wind that was rapidly whipping around after days of rain. That park in general always rubbed me the wrong way. On one side was a trailer park, and the other side was industry. It was the perfect place for twenty year old white women to bring their multiple children while they argued on the phone with one of their many possible baby-daddies in spaghetti strap tank tops with strange fat in areas you never knew could get fat spilling out over short shorts or pajama pants.
As we exited the car we approached the area very slowly because something was amiss. We'd visited the Warren Trails southern branch at all times of the year, day and night and it had never looked like this. The closer we got the more foreign it seemed. The ground shimmered in the light and moved with the wind. The sun that crept through the trees spread across areas that were usually shrouded in darkness. This was a new world and we were Christopher Columbus in a grade schoolers eyes, filled with awe and apprehension and wonder.
"It's rain," my cousin muttered.
The park had turned into a swamp. Each dip in the land was filled and over flowing with sweet and stagnant water that had fallen and refused to drain for the decaying city was too poor to fix the sewers that year.
Swamp Things and Lilly Pads
It started with a story: heard by me and my cousin and told by another. A tall drink of water spatting and spewing this yarn about screwing this homeless homosexual out of two dollars by the vague promise of promiscuous behavior on the cross town bus earlier that week. The story, like many of the stories the tall drink of water told came to an odd halt with no real ending, just a sigh and a shrug when we arrived at a park in Warren. Needless to say, sometimes when people go through weird or rough spot in their life, that spot lasts for years and years.
At the time, and now, I'm not sure what the name of the park is, but we called it the Warren Trails. There were two places we called the Warren Trails, which sometimes lead to confusion when you were meeting someone there. The first Warren Trails were actually in Madison Heights, on the edge of Warren somewhere, but we didn't know that when we named it. They (the trails) were behind a hospital just northwest of the cross streets Eleven Mile and Dequindre.
The Warren Trails we were visiting that day were just off a park south of Nine Mile between Dequindre and Ryan Rd. And this is not to say that either of these "trails" were actually trails, but they were small, hidden wooded areas in the middle of lower-middle class suburbia.
Us three, The Water, my cousin, and me went to the park to spend some time outdoors and to take in the wind that was rapidly whipping around after days of rain. That park in general always rubbed me the wrong way. On one side was a trailer park, and the other side was industry. It was the perfect place for twenty year old white women to bring their multiple children while they argued on the phone with one of their many possible baby-daddies in spaghetti strap tank tops with strange fat in areas you never knew could get fat spilling out over short shorts or pajama pants.
As we exited the car we approached the area very slowly because something was amiss. We'd visited the Warren Trails southern branch at all times of the year, day and night and it had never looked like this. The closer we got the more foreign it seemed. The ground shimmered in the light and moved with the wind. The sun that crept through the trees spread across areas that were usually shrouded in darkness. This was a new world and we were Christopher Columbus in a grade schoolers eyes, filled with awe and apprehension and wonder.
"It's rain," my cousin muttered.
The park had turned into a swamp. Each dip in the land was filled and over flowing with sweet and stagnant water that had fallen and refused to drain for the decaying city was too poor to fix the sewers that year.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Readymade
The cascade is long dry, hanging on a wall.
So much for the rent…
as to say- in side joke
"If you're pissed, urinate."
(Yours truly, R. Mutt.)
Mongrel dog, laced with rabies
Cunning
Defeatist
A receptacle to hold defecation
In a Modern Art Museum
In America.
[So today's poetry will be a readymade of sorts.]
[As most of my poetry resembles]
[Some junk]
[Someone found]
[And called art.]
As defiant as a loose canine might be
Cheeky
Funny
But that's besides the point.
later, in Ney York:
The now deceased
Max Roach
Gets his ears wet.
Plays with The Duke
When he's 18 years old.
So, of course there's envy…
Improvisational little jazz drummer boy
Bebop/hard bop
And I'm filled with deceit.
Maybe I was dreaming
And my legs just are not
Long enough
There is no distance
So distant
To deliver me
Far enough
To forget about the good days
To jump start a heart
Which has since refused
To beat.
Packing the drummed drum set in the trunk
Tree trunk bark falling off the tree
From the long nights rain
Dogs in the distance
Barking at a haunting
The moon is
not the moon
nor is it anything
that should concern you
My lips are dancing alone
Talking consistently
with the hum of the coke machine
In a big empty room
Sensual lights
Dim and detailed
With a sash draped over top
Gliding across
A new suit
Tailored specifically for me
(is it safe to keep,
All these secrets?)
My arms holding on to big balls of sheets
Eye holes
Old time costume of a ghost
The memory of the tattered house
We called a home
Where I felt comfortable writing countless love songs
And read William Carlos Williams
On the back lawn
When night came and the day was done
I'd sneak into bed
To reach these arms around
A body
Somebody
… a sturdy snowball in hell that melts so slow you can't quite recall the old and trivial differences. A steady change that is monstrous…after so long. A creeping that haunts you in your sleep like a death certificate with your name misspelled or your first rejection letter from heavens publishing company that took 6 weeks to appear magically in the box nailed to your house...
Let's just say:
Mornings are lonely
And memories are concrete
Hard as nails
On chalk boards
clumsy
awkward
Youth as you'd like to forget it.
Life seems
relentless when
everything
reminds me of
the beginning
of "you and me"
I write
simply to have
a written collection
of my own handwriting
So when I'm old and bored
I can count how many times
I actually wrote the letter 'E'
It seems suiting then
That after Duchamp was long dead
His "Fountain",
(the urinal
that he placed in a museum
after writing R. Mutt on it…)
was selected nearly 90 years later as
"the most influential artwork of the 20th century"
by 500 renowned artists and historians…
But that's not really the point.
Your Life, Your Meal, and Everything
Where would we be
If I took us out of context?
Out of our normal setting…
What do you say
To the familiar waitress you see
At the grocery store…
She's awkwardly smiling
Because of a slight recognition
You say, "hello…"
Knowing full well
She barely recognizes you
"Hi," she chirps back slowly…
Her voice is different-
Different than before… different than when she asks what you're eating today,
Or how everything was…
And by 'everything' she only means your meal.
And you know that, but her voice is uplifting when she asks,
And it makes everything a tiny bit better…
And by 'everything' this time you mean your life
Which hasn't been everything you had wished it to be
But the waitress is being so very nice today,
She must realize you're having a shit day
And she is so very understanding that there's no need to let it all out on her
You know she's understanding because of that amazing tone she uses when she talks.
Refilling your coffee and asking about desert…
You answer,
"Everything is fine… Thank you."
And when you say everything back to the waitress,
You mean everything.
The voice she uses in the grocery store is less friendly and more casual.
A bit more real and down to earth
As if she had met you in a high school class that you both hated
And seeing you reminds her of this class,
Although she seems happy to see you, she is thinking about the terrible Calculus exam she failed
And you passed…
Barely, but you passed and she is proud of you for being so studious but resents you also.
This voice is bitter, like your voice is when you first enter the restaurant she works in
A voice hardened a bit by the real world
A voice that talks just fine with minor proper English issues
But is laced with thoughts of rent being due soon,
laundry having to be done so you have clean work clothes
Budgeting so that you can afford to put gas in the tank
And knowing that you might have to ask someone to help you financially
And how degrading it feels to be at the mercy of someone else
Being tormented by the fact that they help you
Because they can hold that over your head…
This voice is harsh…
and you don't like this new voice.
She's confused, you can tell this much.
And her hair is down. You've never seen it down, and you like it down but because her voice is not the one you remember from the restaurant, you convince yourself that she looks bad.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Fine, fine…" you answer, followed by a pause.
"Good."
"Yeah… I'm doing well."
"Nice… It's nice to hear that."
"Yeah. Well… How are you?"
"Oh! I'm fine… I'm good. Real good… just shopping for some food." she says with a smile.
She likes her own observation about her shopping… because it's obvious, it's funny. You smile at her. You like the joke, because it reminds you of the waitress at the restaurant, not this bitch at the grocery store who is hard and normal and not a bright ray of golden sun as she is at work.
"Ha, yeah… me too… Obviously." You joke back, with the same joke, hoping that it holds water again.
"Ha, cool… well…"
"Do you work today?" you blurt out nervously when you think she is going to leave. The beginning of the sentence being fast and loud, and the end being quick and normal volume.
"Oh!…"
[It clicks in her head that you come into her restaurant often… Now she remembers.]
"Yeah, I work at four…" she says. She speaks hesitantly still, and you realize that this is because she pondering if it is rude to tell you that she had no idea who you were until now.
"Sounds like fun," you say a little offhandedly.
Now you're a little pissed
that she's thinking about
what she is thinking about,
because you know what she is thinking about.
You knew who she was, even with her hair look dumb and down, and her not being in a uniform, and she doesn't know who you are even though you have her as your waitress at least two times a week. She knows what you drink and makes you feel like 'everything' is a bit better when she wants to know if 'everything' is ok even though your everything is your life and her everything is your meal.
"It's not bad when it's busy, you know? Gatta buy groceries somehow…" she states, very matter-of-factly.
[It clicks in your head that you're a decent tipper… You're buying the block of cheese and bag of potatoes in her cart this week]
"OK, well, maybe I'll see you later. I have to check my bank account after I leave here," you tell her, "see if I can afford coffee and pie today."
What if I was able
To put us back into context
Having me pay for your kindness …
Knowing full well
We're both humans
Both standing on our own two feet…
If we were babies,
It wouldn't matter
If I gave you a five or a single…
Because mommy would fix it
No matter what had happened
Living under her roof
asking what time dinner is…
But as adults, You have fears and worries and need someone like mommy to ask if everything is OK. As long as you tip well, and talk politely, everything will be fine. Your meal, your life, and everything.
If I took us out of context?
Out of our normal setting…
What do you say
To the familiar waitress you see
At the grocery store…
She's awkwardly smiling
Because of a slight recognition
You say, "hello…"
Knowing full well
She barely recognizes you
"Hi," she chirps back slowly…
Her voice is different-
Different than before… different than when she asks what you're eating today,
Or how everything was…
And by 'everything' she only means your meal.
And you know that, but her voice is uplifting when she asks,
And it makes everything a tiny bit better…
And by 'everything' this time you mean your life
Which hasn't been everything you had wished it to be
But the waitress is being so very nice today,
She must realize you're having a shit day
And she is so very understanding that there's no need to let it all out on her
You know she's understanding because of that amazing tone she uses when she talks.
Refilling your coffee and asking about desert…
You answer,
"Everything is fine… Thank you."
And when you say everything back to the waitress,
You mean everything.
The voice she uses in the grocery store is less friendly and more casual.
A bit more real and down to earth
As if she had met you in a high school class that you both hated
And seeing you reminds her of this class,
Although she seems happy to see you, she is thinking about the terrible Calculus exam she failed
And you passed…
Barely, but you passed and she is proud of you for being so studious but resents you also.
This voice is bitter, like your voice is when you first enter the restaurant she works in
A voice hardened a bit by the real world
A voice that talks just fine with minor proper English issues
But is laced with thoughts of rent being due soon,
laundry having to be done so you have clean work clothes
Budgeting so that you can afford to put gas in the tank
And knowing that you might have to ask someone to help you financially
And how degrading it feels to be at the mercy of someone else
Being tormented by the fact that they help you
Because they can hold that over your head…
This voice is harsh…
and you don't like this new voice.
She's confused, you can tell this much.
And her hair is down. You've never seen it down, and you like it down but because her voice is not the one you remember from the restaurant, you convince yourself that she looks bad.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Fine, fine…" you answer, followed by a pause.
"Good."
"Yeah… I'm doing well."
"Nice… It's nice to hear that."
"Yeah. Well… How are you?"
"Oh! I'm fine… I'm good. Real good… just shopping for some food." she says with a smile.
She likes her own observation about her shopping… because it's obvious, it's funny. You smile at her. You like the joke, because it reminds you of the waitress at the restaurant, not this bitch at the grocery store who is hard and normal and not a bright ray of golden sun as she is at work.
"Ha, yeah… me too… Obviously." You joke back, with the same joke, hoping that it holds water again.
"Ha, cool… well…"
"Do you work today?" you blurt out nervously when you think she is going to leave. The beginning of the sentence being fast and loud, and the end being quick and normal volume.
"Oh!…"
[It clicks in her head that you come into her restaurant often… Now she remembers.]
"Yeah, I work at four…" she says. She speaks hesitantly still, and you realize that this is because she pondering if it is rude to tell you that she had no idea who you were until now.
"Sounds like fun," you say a little offhandedly.
Now you're a little pissed
that she's thinking about
what she is thinking about,
because you know what she is thinking about.
You knew who she was, even with her hair look dumb and down, and her not being in a uniform, and she doesn't know who you are even though you have her as your waitress at least two times a week. She knows what you drink and makes you feel like 'everything' is a bit better when she wants to know if 'everything' is ok even though your everything is your life and her everything is your meal.
"It's not bad when it's busy, you know? Gatta buy groceries somehow…" she states, very matter-of-factly.
[It clicks in your head that you're a decent tipper… You're buying the block of cheese and bag of potatoes in her cart this week]
"OK, well, maybe I'll see you later. I have to check my bank account after I leave here," you tell her, "see if I can afford coffee and pie today."
What if I was able
To put us back into context
Having me pay for your kindness …
Knowing full well
We're both humans
Both standing on our own two feet…
If we were babies,
It wouldn't matter
If I gave you a five or a single…
Because mommy would fix it
No matter what had happened
Living under her roof
asking what time dinner is…
But as adults, You have fears and worries and need someone like mommy to ask if everything is OK. As long as you tip well, and talk politely, everything will be fine. Your meal, your life, and everything.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Submission Poem
Dear Mr./Mrs./Ms. Editor:
I joined your mailing list
because I wish to be published.
This is not to say that I actually
thought that there was someone
who checked on that sort of thing.
To be honest I have no desire to
read your online magazine. . .
unless, of course
I'm in it.
This is nothing personal.
I could care less about
the literary goings on
in a city where
you live
and I have no want to visit.
I know what I'm looking for.
It's not some kid
going to grad school
writing poetry about
reading Nietzsche -
trying to be obvious - blahblah
getting acceptance letters,
blahblahblah
typing up cleaver bios
blahblahblahblah
about still working in a grocery store
blahblahblahblahblah. . .
As if working a shit job
and being a published poet a shock.
Like it shocks me,
reading the poems
that some people have also read
and consciously published.
In short,
thank you for
considering me
for publication
and picking someone else.
God knows I wouldn't have wanted
to be in this last issue
with the Nietzsche kid.
And please remove me from your mailing list.
Sincerely,
Shaun Wisniewski
I joined your mailing list
because I wish to be published.
This is not to say that I actually
thought that there was someone
who checked on that sort of thing.
To be honest I have no desire to
read your online magazine. . .
unless, of course
I'm in it.
This is nothing personal.
I could care less about
the literary goings on
in a city where
you live
and I have no want to visit.
I know what I'm looking for.
It's not some kid
going to grad school
writing poetry about
reading Nietzsche -
trying to be obvious - blahblah
getting acceptance letters,
blahblahblah
typing up cleaver bios
blahblahblahblah
about still working in a grocery store
blahblahblahblahblah. . .
As if working a shit job
and being a published poet a shock.
Like it shocks me,
reading the poems
that some people have also read
and consciously published.
In short,
thank you for
considering me
for publication
and picking someone else.
God knows I wouldn't have wanted
to be in this last issue
with the Nietzsche kid.
And please remove me from your mailing list.
Sincerely,
Shaun Wisniewski
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