Found it on eBay a while back. I like it, but I feel
self-conscious sometimes when people
see me screwing the top off. Who do you think
you are? Oh, you must be a WRITER. Yeah, well try a Bic.
There doesn't seem to be an easy comeback for not doing the easiest thing.
With that pen I wrote today that
every tragedy has its half-life.
What does that mean, guy with the old pen?
A fresh kill merits tact, but you can always wait.
In a few weeks things will calm down.
And that's good, like for the guys down Central
eating burgers for pennies an ounce.
It won't be long before they're laughing
about how the cute young thing
down the street had it coming, what with
that sassy mouth and the way she dressed and all.
They can finish their rings a little more
content with the thought that the universe hasn't
completely forgotten about the old guard at lunchtime,
and how some people just plain, by God, have it coming.
My fountain pen leaks sometimes. This makes writing with it
even more absurd. What sort of guy
writes with an old, leaky fountain pen?
Bics don't leak much, and they're cheap.
Jess in the third booth, again.
"Can't stand that crack dealer in my buildin' no more."
Jess has one dress, but she changes her hair every day
thinking it will make it look different.
Jess looks like every angry woman in your neighborhood your mother
tolerated when when you were little.
"s'matter, Jess, chargin' ya too much?"
A cough and a laugh.
Crossfire should be this good.
Suddenly, Tucker Carlson's in my head with his nose to the glass,
sucking in a long line of white. It'd probably do that
little git a lot of good.
I look down at my paper. Blue smears into some words
looking like a verbal Rohrschak. I see a bunny. I
see a scared young man with no idea what to do,
and a bunny. The bunny is getting friendly with
a line break. There's a title, too.
What am I doing?
These people don't want to read poetry.
How many people want to read poetry?
There's another one of those anomalies.
Everyone likes the idea of it being around,
and many even like playing with it,
but few the number who actually read it.
One one-hundredth of that group would actually
pay for it. Yes, Michael, spend all your free time
on that. Smart move. Poetry, the harmless pup no one feeds.
Who wouldn't rather watch someone get paid a couple hundred bucks
to eat a bowl of worms. Its easier than diving into
a bunch of images held together with spit and romantic philosophy.
I've actually seen that on TV, the part about the worms.
The journal, then my eyes, close.
Open. A fat man is standing over me with a tray
full of little empty boxes that smell like dead onions.
"My granddad used to write with one just like that.
Heh, his used to leak, too."
He bobbed his head for a second agreeing with himself
then limped his stinky load to the trash. Without looking
back he hobbled on out into the glaring street.
Poetry, life's leaky fountain pen.
I order some fries and open it up again.
Nothing that can't be fixed.
I wipe it down, grab the salt, and
begin putting the finishing touches on my bunny.