I can’t send out an email now,
I can’t give you a critique
of your poem.
The mere fact that I’m writing
about poetry in a poem
is an irksome absurdity.
I should be driving a cab,
but I have a fear of driving,
or prepping for the night shift
at some seedy hotel,
but I’ve already done that
and it filled me with pathetic mutterings
that no one cared to listen to.
I’m here and there are plenty
of someones who will want to
think nothing of me
and they will think nothing of me,
so that’s something.
That’s a cocky dumb shit line
that some wannabe liar would end with
to make themselves look Bukowski.
Such bullshit artists
who have never read Vallejo,
or Ruben Dario,
or Lord Byron,
or Percy Bysshe Shelley,
or Bill Knott
and on and on
and only a bullshit poet
would name all of those names
in a poem,
so here I am.
I wanted to paint a painting
this morning.
I woke up dreaming
about painting a painting.
I went out into the streets
to capture the inspiration
to paint that painting
before it was even sunrise.
I had to watch that the cops
didn't think that I was some
sort of nutcase
drifting around so early in the morning
looking for God knows what,
maybe the sunrise.
Maybe the cops are right.
Maybe I am some sort of nutcase.
I tried to keep a low profile.
There were a few true pervs about.
I came back with a thousand
brilliant ideas on nothing
and spent the day jerking off
both literally and figuratively.

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