yes the book is done
and what a reward
looking at it
laying back in bed
it has been an honest
and torn up endeavor
didn’t try to
make it pretty
it came along with me
thrashed up in my bag
thrashed up with me
my worn eyes
cracked finger
paranoid self
it is something pure
to get away to
read and write
at least more pure
at least . . .
but how can you describe
what you’re really feeling
no matter what
it comes out second rate
the real thing inside of you
is doing the writing
and what comes out
on the page
is merely a tribute
writing can never fail
in that way
the success is personal
if you want it
then you’re already successful
if you’re sitting there reading
analyzing your favorite author
pondering someone’s particular
style and thinking what method
you can adapt as your own
then you are one
successful son of a bitch
you are on your way
and no one has the right to
tell you any different
but will anyway
for the sheer hell of it
because it’s a commercial
because I don’t know
what will it matter anyway
their words or yours?
people love authors because
they need friends
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