I want to be a writer.
What the fuck is a writer? Are they a Chewed ballpoint pen, furiously scratching Rage and reason into a notebook? Are they a houseplant, still, barely breathing, As the world spins on by? I want to be a writer the way I want to sleep -- It’s good for my health. I am shy, and don’t need many friends, But I need people to talk to. Bold of me, of course, to assume the ether I am talking to Is a “people”. Terrifying too, To dwell too much on the reader. So, to the writer, we return. Self-indulgent prick they are, Puffing cigarette smoke, Cold mug of coffee at hand, Listening to some crap like pink floyd. Or else tranquil, in a forest, Patient enough to watch the grass grow. Perhaps I want to be remembered -- To carve myself into the geological epoch (the technological epoch) And be pressed like dried sage between the pages of Right Now. The Anthropocene makes Lascaux painters of all of us , I whisper, as I spray red dye Around the outline of my open palm against the cave wall. I was here, I promise.
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October 2020
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