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Michael Internicola |
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FLUFF no matter how cold it gets in new york i know the road is out there somewhere. i can't see what's next in my life. it's just a place i find myself every once in a while. i walk by girls hoping for a smile but they just keep on walking. the scales are uneven. i walk for miles and watch people walk dogs or hold hands on dates. i stare inside cabs looking for one person in particular and i imagine me reading this thing in front of strangers someday and while hipsters ring off words that leave the room higher and he's got on some special leather jacket that means he lives below 14th i'm still here talking about my sari sucking dick or me jerking off to 1980 porno because there's really nothing left to do. there's been talk about going off to st. thomas come january but if i don't get some cash together i'll end up killing myself at her place of work because that will ruin everything from there and i don't want to scare you, doll at the third chair from the left. i wanted to give my life to her in a different way but i can't walk single file and i can't listen to fluff and i smoke too much and i fucked so many women i lost count but i want to be honest with you before you fall in love with me and you will. there can't be any other way to say these things from here. look at me. look at me. listen to my voice. there are a hundred things i could say to make it right but i could always fuck it up with one single sentence in a matter of sec o nds. I'M A 32 YEAR OLD MAN AND YOU'RE A 26 YEAR OLD WOMAN I told her i'd be doing a reading and she said she'd be in back with a whoopee cushion. i asked her if she still packed her panties in ziploc bags and she told me not to mock it. she turned her head to cough and i spit on the floor. she told me it was what it was and i said it was for now. i grew a beard and she made a face. i waited patiently and she went to santa barbara without me. she moved to a new apartment and so did i. i worked on another book and she got a boyfriend. she landed a job traveling around the globe and i got another gig at a cowboy bar. she made fake love last night while i bagged another whore. she had a cocktail with friends and i drank 15 belvedere dirty rocks all by myself. she went to bed at 10:37 and got up at 5:23 in the morning. i went to bed at 5:23 and got up at 10:37 at night. she kissed him good bye and didn't cry. i kissed my pillows good bye and cried a little. she heard silence and i heard her breathing. she said life is great and i wondered what the hell was going on. she'd been everywhere once and loved it. i been everywhere twice and hated it both times. i looked around nyc and just figured there was no other place to move to. i told her i would never marry her and she said there was no future. she said i would be famous and i turned all our pictures face down in the apartment. nobody paid attention to her life. nobody was reading my shit. i promised my baby i would keep her rolling and show her the world but she said she didn't want that kind of life anymore. i promised my baby things. when i'm looking at undefeatable odds all by myself and she never was able to understand the writing. when i'm digging in hotel drawers looking for cash left behind and i close my eyes all i need is love sometimes. all i need is love. THE PATH NOBODY KNOWS i don't know any writers really. i know kids who want to write, who try to write, who shouldn't be writing. the circle is small. doesn't seem justified with the amount of books in space. one time i met a woman in a book store who said it took her twelve years to finish her novel and that was only the first draft. i see poets on broadway jumping around and showboatin' how tough it is but i'm not sure if they're suffering. real suffering doesn't connect to anybody but yourself. fact is i don't want to meet any writers. they can't be in my head or in my room so what's the fucking difference. i don't want to join a book club or take classes with house wives or rich kids. don't want to help others learn how to send the shit out or clap at poetry readings when i'm really not feeling it. can't say i'll have much in common with a published writer either. fuck if they want to come back to the private hell and give me an opinion about what's going on. i feel no bond with anybody there. i respect the solitude and significance of the craft too much to care about anybody but me. if that sounds selfish get used to it. spit farther than anybody you know. that's how i know it has to be. |