poem of the day 01.08.15

big asses and hot sauce

the writer is sixteen years old

he’s got three chapters done in a novel

while i spend most mornings simply staring at mine

he carries the pages in a big red binder

every time i see him he shakes it at me

i think maybe he’s doing it to mock me

but we’ve never had a conversation about my words

unless he’s googled me

like the other people who work here have done

if so, i hope he doesn’t send my shit

to the HR department like the last asshole did

the writer likes to give me his chapters when he’s done

he says he’s writing a novel

because he wants to have more to offer his audience

besides his singing and his acting

sixteen year old kids with twitter and facebook

must think the whole world is one big audience

his book is a science-fiction fantasy

about multiple earths light years away

and some federation of buff people who drink protein shakes

and always end up insulting each other

i don’t read genre

because the regular world is fucked up enough

i had to read a chapter twice just to figure out

what in the hell was going on

when i gave it back to him i told him what

i always tell people who give me their writing to read

i told him his novel was nice

that seemed to work for him

because he shook the binder at me

and got right to work

on the next scene

when the book is finished he’ll probably

get a literary agent and a major press right away

i’ve seen it happen before

he’ll think the world just works like that

it does for some people

for others we sit somewhere day in and day out

hoping for just a little something to get us through the hours

a good line

a passable existence

a lunch that doesn’t suck

the chance at another earth light years away

where one can start over again without any baggage

or the ladies in HR

knowing that you get drunk most nights

and that you have a fetish

for big asses

and hot sauce

for contemplative shits at five in the morning.