In Absentia

You, whose absence deprives me of sleep,
whose last words a stinging jewel in my keep.
Come snow yesterday, cloudy now or sunny future,
you, upon my heart threaten every suture.

Like a sneeze it seems we were thrown together,
then your yawning and imminent departure.
Almost a smile but in every way
contemplation each wayward day.

I’m worst on mornings just like this,
terrible on evenings like this too,
in markets they won’t even sell me superglue
because they think that I am two.

I am not two and I know you’re not -2,
about the extent of my mathematical ability,
especially when I reinvent you
to placate my personal conceits.

"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so.

Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't."

The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."



Post A Comment

Skip to toolbar