we’re in a classroom, which is a store. the professor tells us the true
writer must destroy his own ego. do not tell stories, he says, unless
they are someone else’s. do not say i. i look at the clock and the clock’s
the wind. it says one tongue per king, and that pulls on me like a sad
movie. i just watched five easy pieces w/ my girlfriend, what a bummer.
what a bummer he left her and life up in the air like a dead piano. i’m
sick of the road as the end as if no gas station rots forever round the
bend. one tongue per king, the poem becomes its own thing. so what’s
this? not america, not this professor pulling maps down over the board.
he’s the enemy, which is at least tens of thousands of people. i’m not
looking for the enemy. call on me, call on me. let’s see what happens.