I used to think

about what a great time it would have been
to have sat about drinking and bullshitting
with Hemingway and Pound, e.e. Cummings,
Gertude Stein, Dos Possos, etc.
but when I think of the writers that I’ve met,
great and small, medium and intermittent,
I have second thoughts
and I think
those back then must have been just as
bitchy, just as gossip-stricken, just as
just as dull and obnoxious in person.
like these I have known, those too most
probably drooled about the lips after the
3rd drink and began babbling about their
literary prowess and their sexual and
their bodily prowess in
belaboring loud voices without the least
bit of humor.

these we seem to choose as our literary
are such jackasses, such assholes in
it’s as if they have given it all to getting
the line down and after that
there’s nothing left of
poor, poor dears, drained of their
senses, they’ve left it all on paper
like when they wipe their butts.
decades of these, centuries of these
and they are
I stay away from the writers, I drink
alone with the door
and celebrate, among other things,
their absence,
for they are absent,
these chattering bitching
who will tell you that I am
not one of

now, let’s have a drink and