Thursday, January 8, 2015

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.


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