T. sit down and have a smoke
on the porch
and don’t think.
Watch Friday turn into nothing
Relax, don’t philosophize.
Wander around the Immovable Object.
Dam the Great Stream, man.
Nothing fucks a fallen tree!
T., that which does not kill you
So stop worrying about
inferior knishes, bagels, pizza —
Whether nothing can exist in a vacuum…
Instead T., fill you Zippo;
piss in the bushes.
Because, you’re the Jack of Diamonds.
You’re an inverted ninth ringing
in an alley even the rats
Talk is a thing.
Not to talk, the proverbial tree.
So, relax, don’t stare,
because nothing is worth the nothing
you can’t have.
Written in the Spring of 1991 for the last poetry workshop I took at UF. It was the only thing I produced that semester that Debra Gregor liked.
I wrote it to tick her off. Shows you how in tune I was with that class.
I don’t like angry poetry. I especially don’t like my angry poetry. There’s a ton of it on the ‘cutting room floor.’
Only this and one other have survived my final cut. I remember that the class (and Ms. Gregor) gushed over this while I sat nervously waiting to get shit-hammered. My ‘good and dear friend’ Mr. Rojas was the lone dissenting voice.
In the end, I think I agree with him.
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