January 18, 2013

"Take my advice; don't listen to me."




Nearly three whole hours of sleep that time wow...dragged by dream and memory from bed ...an hour of listening to him read his stuff and not an honest word in it...no stab of pain no piercing puncture of disrespect or dishonor or self-disgust not a failure anywhere...just that lazy self-satisfied laconic amused superior look back at what must have been excruciatingly lonely experience he's competed all his life to surmount and hide behind poses...dream made me so angry I had to drag body from bed put on back brace start coffee wash eyes with eye cup and bottled water to dislodge persistent Mexican sand and turn on computer so I can get it off my chest with a cigarette sugar and flying fingers.

I'd rather read Rumi for love Neruda for love and politics Hemingway for honesty Rulfo for mystery Gorky for outrage Lenin for cleverness Sartre Camus and Russell for intellect Faulkner for characters Cormac McCarthy for story O'Connor for macabre Dillard for craft Aeschylus Jesus for essence Gandhi and King for hope Pericles for wisdom or even Obama for commonsense...than novels produced as regularly as turds whose stink still lingers 24 hours later...for Christ's sake is there any honesty in you ..you  boast brag pose and use big words to show us what an intellectual you are...look at all the stuff you have done wow. Impressed. Really. Like hell...I'm not stroking you..only mild hints at resentment of injustices by deadbeat dad, of which I was confessedly one...where is the inside?

I'm jealous of course...can't even look at my own novel...and it's the best thing I've ever attempted to write...it will never see publication either and who cares?..what is another novel in the glutinous mountains of words stacked already?...so that I can be admired praised and paid-for?...I gave up on that dumb dream when I heard real poets and read better writers...if I can't match them what's the use?

Jealousy envy pain hate bitterness lonely defiant suicidal and plain pissed off is what...yes I know how weak it makes me look but it's true...Kerouac true...sons of bitches with their positivity and fruitless "message art of hope" and grayed-out graffiti...looming $50,000 fines...and surfing the net to find a dancer who hates me for loving her...another white teaser...admiration her daily bread...all the best schools and more friends than flies and my three best friends dead in no time at all...all honorable men...me left with nothing nothing nothing just as I figured it might be but pushed ahead with anyway...all the time working my ass off just to pay for gas and stay out of your hellish jails...yes I resent it and scoff at your gutless prose ugh...and your silly experimental plays...I'd rather burn to death than publish that crap...crap you have to pay to smell...better things to waste my money on...denture adhesive pain medicine rice and beans while watching swollen ankle from looming blood clot...but keep trying but as for me I see no shame in not trying at all...and why the hell can't I find a decent English dictionary in this godforsaken country crawling with North Americans and Englishmen?

Ah, that feels better already...you say your friends are dead too and you are dying too?...why aren't you crying then?...why haven't I heard a howl of truthful pain yet?...because you are a winner man...you've crafted your persona well...medals and pensions for proof... but you're dishonest as hell and you haven't surpassed your dad yet...although you must have been a better father and a better fuck too from what I heard...you never thanked me either.

Yeah...I wrote this for you but you will never read or acknowledge it if you do.

I keep remembering what an old true friend told me about you a long time ago..."He's posing even when he's taking pictures."

"Don't get up, gentlemen/I'm only passing through."