Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

What happened to my characters?  My character?  Gone depressed after a few beers and at home at the computer.  Check e-mail.  One from brother.

People just piss me off lately.  I want to get away and relax.  Lay on a beach listen to waves watch sunset.  Listen to that little voice in my head say, "go on, amuse yourself."

Where's Frank O'Hara when I need him?  That old son of a bitch!  Where's a crush I had my eyes on?  That boy at the bar with a cigarette.  He was okay.  I won that game.  I'm the special guest star.  My hand is open like a book oh that's stupid for tonight we smoke our "good nights" away.  Where can he get some pot, some dope?  Beats me, man.

Flip page.  Breathe deeper than usual.  Breathe.  Read a good book.  John Cage poem—that nothing—or something—about it.  The music of it.  Who is John Cage?  Who is Jill Scott?  I love me some Jill on jukebox.  Better music.

When does it stop hurting?  The doctor wants to set me up with a hairdresser.  A hairdresser, I say!  I hate poetry slams.  I hate bad poetry—that which I've heard before—not like Chris Tysh—she rocks my world like a leather jacket on a stud muffin motor bike man.

Oh, well, tonight I'll watch trash on TV until I fall asleep.  Tomorrow maybe read all day, watch a movie, visit mother.  Play pool.  Where is Frank?  I want him badly.  I should be paid more than I am.  I should retire a wealthy man.  Alice Notley is a genius.  Man oh man, she rocks my world too.

I don't like whipped cream.  Sorry.  Pleasure to see you this evening.  He's wobbling like a puppy dog.  I hope, sincerely, that he has no intentions with me.  Though he's nice and he has a goatee.  Where did those characters go off to?  I liked them and felt deeply for them.  They could've been more.  But perhaps maybe later.

All this shit is too fast and too much.  I got the wrong fax in my hand.  Wrong John on the phone.  Get together.  This is crap.  Doesn't matter.  You don't listen.  You don't recognize poetry when you hear it like Alice or Chris.  I like to be rocked.

I just realized this is the longest material—go on, go on—I've produced in a while.  Such a good thing.  I'm tired.  I'm drunk.  I need another beer.  It's quiet.  Computer screen saver bounces across screen.  My hand.

No verb.  Just my hand.  It's a good hand.  So what I know.  I'm better than you all.  Hey you, out there—they like my poetry.  I'm depressed.  I like that song.  I like that commercial.  I like that cute boy.  I play pool.  Check out my backside.  Don't say no.  It's amazing how fast things are.  All of it.  

I will adjust without going crazy.  There's dinner or lunch in it for you - on me.  Oh, no regrets.

I apologize.  Would I have a shot.  I've been writing for 7eral years already broken of it.  It wears me out but I go on—go on—keep with it.

Tell me, what's your name?  How are you?  Do you know where I can get some dope?  Dope.  Dope.  Drug me up.  Numb me.  Too fast.  This life.  "To hell with death."  Where is Frank?  I want to meet him.  Is he a top or a bottom?  I hope a top.  Well, to be completely honest, folks, I'm queer —some say that—others say fag—gay—homo—but I'd like to get it on with Frank when I die cuz I know he's in heaven.  I'll be in heaven and God will watch all the fags fucking like animals.

Oh now that's cliché—ooh how risqué of me.  I'm pretty good.  I'm pretty good on the dance floor.  My knees are weak.  Help me up.

I'm old now.  Grey, can't get out of bed.  I made my living, made my father proud.  He's gone.  Frank's gone.

Look at the time.  Time for trash on TV.  I can't explain.  Who cares really?  We're all stuck on ourselves except when in love.  Truly in love.  I give up—just get the hell out, will ya?

Wait!  Come back.  There's God.  He's fucking Frank.  That bastard!  Life has gone.  What have I done for this?  That's not medicine, I've won awards.