Textual Frustration

    The Amazonian tribe is teaching the American how to cook rice as I sit and smoke myself that much closer to the weekend. And I haven’t thought about the books—can’t think of the books as glorious ascension entailing demise. Failure being devoid of glory, of honor or truth, or cotton candy stuffed in the eyes, ears, mind, mouth.

    Yesterday I stuttered trying to explain what you said. The others sat in a circle around me—nodding—and I deliberately brought out your matterhorns of cock and grand canyons of asshole, and all of your Naomi’s fleshy greatness, her stitches reaching out and whipping our faces and lapping at our ankles like wave or dog.

    Later—didn’t do much. Sat smoked stared started writing a poem called self doubt—could not finish. Ate, drank, dreamed by day. Laughed a bit, cried. Called myself poet.