All these falseass writers hiding behind their degrees their adjunk 12 kid class that one professor who once told them that was one good line you wrote behind their screens and editors and agents and tours and speeches and nobody even gets what you're talking about or wants to read those 500 pages we do it to put books on the shelves pretty spines for the spineless these kids who get put up in Brooklyn and get moms money for rent and dads money for a vintage bookshop and five dollar mochas to inspire one essay about how the writing world is changing catapult you to the front page because you said gentrification is ruining the cool and your ethnicity hurts and your dad wants you to be a doctor but you’re an artist, cool
Nothing new, beggars wanting money for their words, words for a career because words is money and writers is sexy
How about this... print my life’s work piece by piece without my name on it. Print this piece under someone else's name. Give this piece to a bum in the street so he can drop it in a marketers mailbox or better yet lose it in the wind melt my hard drive nuke the cloud Give it away
How about I write everything I can into a spiral notebook then throw it in a fire if I just memorize my words and shout them out once at the mirror at a crowd and then they're gone, cool
They're not mine anyway, these words, this voice, steal them, burn them, forget them. Have some pretty ones, on me:
The market was slow today, you could see last night's tragedy in the cashiers’ slow motions.
Highway heights on the bridge; if you hold your breath across the Hudson you'll remember
everything we stole out of her.
Spring only lasted two days that year.
The seagulls owned the early morning in San Diego, cleaning trash from the receding tide before the sun showed everything that died the night before.
And one more:
Kids sprint out of the schoolyard at the bell, red balloons tied to their bags. Just a monday.
This poem went through zero edits. I wrote it on the kitchen floor on my cell phone while waiting for water to boil on a thursday lunch before I met three kids who need to get a GED and can't string together a sentence. It's already collecting dust. But at least it's awful. At least it's not a poem. At least it's not mine.