I guess it just takes longer to go through a
metropolitan system.
There's a whole sense of generosity that's strangely
missing from much art activity.
Fast and loose.
And small.
One of my cherished personality tics.
Like an old gas station in the desert, it just stays
open because that's all it ever did and all it knows how to do.
Why do people have to work?
Lots of chicks came up to touch it and get their
pictures made with it.
Most don't want to get in the car, because they think
the earth is flat and they might go over the edge.
Go figure. I'm swamped right now.
I think it's key to admit that 1) I am of a fully
average intelligence, and 2) I have a highly equivocal stance towards poetry.
Only the words have been changed.
One of the greatest joys in life, along with writing a
piece ya think is actually worth a shit, is coming home with a load of books,
stack em by the bed, get a cold beer and plow through.
Could've proved everybody wrong.
--
Note on the Text
This poem comes from Correspondences, which is composed of 62 poems assembled while
cleaning out personal email ahead of a swift termination date at an old job. It
took 11 hours and 46 minutes. I don’t know why I timed it. I
was thinking about my time there as congealed labor, though I didn’t do much of anything for 20 hours a week in my
hidden cubicle. All lines are written by correspondents to me (and so “found”in a specific sense, perhaps “addressed”would be a better term). I normalized the
punctuation and capitalization a bit for consistency of a sort. Only one line
was taken from any given email. Many poets’prose is poached here, but none of the Atlanta group (where I would read
this material as soon as it was written).
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