the machinary of loss

shit, sitting here sneezing,
god damned cold coming on,
lost at the track today.
they sent in a string of longshots
that had been shot in the head and
long ago.

too much literature has been created
as a counter-function against
of late, I’ve preferred writing when
I’m feeling good.
good or good and drunk,
it doesn’t matter.

and when there’s nothing to write
writes about

it’s natural
like dropping your shorts to

I am a writer who had a bad day
at the track
maybe coming down with the flu
sitting in slippers and walking
listening to disco music on the
but all the time
the brain cells throbbing
working at a new system
to get at those four-legged

meanwhile, sitting at the typer,
doing these finger exercises
to keep the rest homes and madhouses
at bay.

read this to your class in contemporary
literature and tell them how easy it
then send those saps out to test
the asphalt.

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