If this business of writing
is inaccessible to anybody
(I mean anybody)
they are merely a person who
rarely listens to silence
because what I’m doing
is essentially related
to a parlor trick;
it’s an occupation
where the job, the interview
are one and the same:
It is the art of screaming, it is custom, perfume,
the present, sleeping trophy.
You take a drag on a cigarette, pull
the first whisper of smoke out with the last,
call it a poem, and toss the butt
into the building’s
wreckage.
This article appears in June 2010.
