interlude: poetry!

notes while reading a crappy novel by a favorite author

It’s the men in the novels. 
It’s the men who write the novels.
No.
It’s the pen. 
In my hand. 
The pen writes the novel. The men take the credit. 
It’s the world that believes. I am the only one who knows for sure.
It’s a feeling. An epiphany.
Chills all over your body and nipples erect. 
It’s a feeling. 
Like all the lights coming on at once. Clouds clearing. An awakening. An enlightening. A feeling. Everything is going to be okay, the universe seems to be saying. See, you are special after all, the universe whispers.

“Balloons pop, baby. That’s their job. Balloons pop.”
Anything can be profound.
Written correctly. After a couple of beers. 
Written by a man? Or his mother? His sister? His wife?
I listen to what goes on around me.
So much going on.
There has to be so many stories. Too many stories. My mind closes its eye and tries to sleep to the never-ending, relentless shrieks of children.
And I drink another beer.
And wish I could write.

Coffee.
Cigarettes.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Write what you know. Wait. No. 
Write what you hear. The little voices of imagination. What is fiction? Is this fiction? Does it depend on who I am? The narrator? Am I real or am I a character?

In the end it is just words on paper.
Shapes turned into sound.
Anyone can write.
With enough time and ink.
Anyone can write.

When your favorite author writes a crappy novel, 
it is somehow refreshing and encouraging 
should you be a writer yourself 
who has your own vast 
collection
of crappy writings.