As much as this blog reminds me of how little anyone cares I'm back. So fuck you non-readers, I don't need you. It's too easy to abandon this outlet I once felt optimistic about. I need some sort of motivation to keep writing poetry and an empty blog is encouraging. So I'm doing this for me, as a reminder to get off my ass and type because it keeps me sane. Fuck writing though. Fuck it. This art gets such a twisted, pretentious and misunderstood reputation. We hand musicians and actors stacks of money wrapped in golden-plated ribbons instantaneously and without thought, then we encourage them to water their egos until they grow into unstoppable mutants only to grab a fresh bag of popcorn and applaud each disastrous decision so we can witness a fall from grace. Meanwhile we ignore literature... or to be polite, we overlook it. And the ones who work in the writing business continue to place it on a ridiculous pedestal far too high for you to reach. That's how I see it at least, as some exclusive club led by arrogant fucks who jerk off to the thought of denying membership. Here's some free advice young ones: start practicing how to be an asshole now and you'll be rich and lonely long before you dreamed!
Anyways, how about that for cynicism? Kids my age are trained complainers, don't you forget it. We can bitch and moan with the best of them. The trick is to complain with hopes of change and work towards one day being only slightly bitter.
To finally make a point, I have a new poem to post so here it is, I hope you enjoy. My next writing project is undetermined but keep your eyes peeled for my new poetry book "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64." It will go on sale in the very near future and I am very happy with it, I really am. I can only hope it shows. Well, here's some new writing. I will post new stuff when new stuff comes to fruition. Goodnight.
I almost died this past weekend. I was almost run over by a temporary addict who swerved in my direction driving up an empty incline behind my apartment. The love of my life was only a couple steps ahead, surely in danger if the worst had occurred. It was as if Lady Death had penciled us in. Our names were scribbled down but not finalized in ink. Perhaps we were substitutes, fill-ins for potential mistakes. Whatever we were I now sit here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, stinking up the room and reassuring the sticky, pungent smell it has a home. I didn’t plan it this way, I didn’t plan any of this. I was always the first to finish my multiplication tests in elementary school. I was supposed to be something important… at least in the eyes of the superficial. I was supposed to be successful and innocent. I wasn’t supposed to be here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, drunk and confused on a Tuesday night. I wasn’t supposed to be jagged and introverted and constantly seeking solitude. What were you supposed to be?