Friday, May 13, 2016


Every prick I gripped was a poem in my hand
                                             —Ronald Palmer

Stupid love.  This is a story called Career.  And it has to do
with stupid, stupid love.  I write its name (the name belonging
to stupid love) seventeen times because I honestly don’t know
what it is, nor what I’m doing, who he is, who she might have
been, what it was as compared with what it is presently and
what it will be in some future, should it arrive.  One thing is
certain, and that is that I wrote (or performed) a stupid, stupid
love.  I don’t know what it was, but am I ever going to miss it?
Or stop missing it?  Well, we did have this this.  We were (or
it was) certainly the thing, even as it eventually were to become
nothing, or something akin to nothing.  There’s still, perhaps
something here, or there (as there relates to here, anyway).
Remember where it was, where we were, at any moment that
every that might have existed?  Who cares, really, where we
were or went, because wherever we were or went, memory
or not, it says here that we were, most assuredly there.  But.
Who cares, really?  The toilet’s still in the restroom or the
bathroom, however one might call it or however one might
have once called it.  But who ever uses one anymore, right?