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57
2014 Quiet Lightning
artwork Daniel Morales
dmorales.mayayo.com
book design by j. brandon loberg
set in Absara
Promotional rights only.
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CONTENTS
curated by
Caroline Kessler & Evan Karp
featured artist Daniel Morales
RAUL RUIZ Call it a Blue Field 1
BARUCH
PORRAS-HERNANDEZ The Time Machine
Was a Record Player 5
The Time Machine Was a Song 6
The Time Machine Broke 7
Brown Crinkly Death Cries 9
ADAM MOSKOWITZ Going to See Anna 11
BRIELLE BRILLIANT Say a Man is a
Confessing Animal 19
GINGER BUSWELL A Discography for South
American Temperaments 21
ARTIE MOFFA Some Assembly Required 23
MONETA GOLDSMITH Calling All Writers 27
WILLIAM TAYLOR JR. Blowing Up 31
Q
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T

L
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H
T
N
ING IS SP
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S
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E
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B
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l a g u n i t a s . c o m
QUIET LIGHTNING
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL
produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on
the first Monday of every month, of which these books
(sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts.
Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is
currently:
Evan Karp founder + president
Chris Cole managing director
Josey Lee public relations
Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kristen Kramer chair
Sarah Ciston director of books
Katie Wheeler-Dubin director of films
Kelsey Schimmelman acting secretary
Sidney Stretz & Laura Cern Melo
art directors
Rose Linke & RJ Ingram
outreach directors
Sarah Maria Griffin & Ceri Bevan
directors of special operations
If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in
helpingon any levelplease send us a line:
evan@qui etl i ghtni ng. or g
1
R
A
U
L R
U
I
Z
C
A
L
L
IT A BLUE
F
I
E
L
D
These are the bursts, transient and jellyfishy
from my heart, which sometimes isnt so much a heart
as it is a blank book, and the blank pages therein
(like with any book) are bent on the eyes of others
for the sloppy lines and words blurry or misspelled
or who knows maybe just too small
(do you know, as everybody else knows, that
the eyes are the active ingredient in Glue
and the Ampersand)
hey, ask me, whats the beautiful thing about each life,
the truly beautiful
Ask me, and I will make some toothy noise
about whats that outside the window
and is it for us?
*
I can feel the helium in my heart sometimes beginning
to wane, I am writing this all down because even I,
55 and fingers all weird (see how thin? Look!)
believe that yes the next tree is waiting for its fruits
to come, and what we know and have known all
our lives
2
is the breathing of Life
the garlicbreathing of a deafening
kiss
Look, and if Im prosaic with the aftertaste of helium
and other reminders, its just Im as stubborn about
the innocence
of what constitutes a kiss
(and here I am kissing you and knocking on the
windows
of heaven, all Lost, cmon press your lips to the page
and hear the racquet I bring with me everywhere)
*
Ive got this theory about the theory of
Everything
The Everything is a two minute song
and someone is playing the drums with
fingers all crooked
Im working out the kinks but also
Im absolutely one hundred percent (100%)
sure that the words to the song
are of a color
and a windless breath
RAUL RUI Z 3
*
This whole story (I must tell you, for I
likewise cant stomach a narrator
who dicks around his lonely readers)
revolves around this time I got on a plane
to go to New York, and my saddest tooth
was waiting for me somewhere
this close to the sky, I became aware
that I was a somewhat broken stem
and I was young and my breath was of coffee
and the world was a field and my flower
could give nothing, is the best way I can say it
5
B
A
R
U
C
H

P
O
R
R A S
-
H
E
R
N
A
N
D
E
Z
T
H
E
TIME MAC
H
IN
E
W
A
S

A
R
E
CORD
P
L
A
Y
E
R
the time machine does not matter what matters is the wolf eyes
glowing that came and took my father away. I knew the blades in
flight jaws would almost cut him in two when the mouth came down
he bent down, knew he could not escape. I ran. failed. father 8 years
old slathered in Niva cream hand reaching out crying for the
stranger from the future for help. but I could do nothing froze as
the hairy behemoth whose mouth a gaping entrance to a black fire
world dragged my father away.
I ran after it, but its towering legs leaped over Tolucan buildings their
glass teeth reach up towards the beast but only slice open my fathers
child belly blood fluttering from his body drops kissing dust
my tiny feet kick up dirt trip hit the ground hard enough to rattle
my lungs. when I traveled back in time I arrived no longer an adult
I too was 8 years old same size as my father.
I followed the trail of dust covered rubies on the ground block after
block past schools past parks pick each small red jewel up
and burst them on my skin like bugs till passing people point and say -
look, on your chest, you heart has torn itself apart and is now
reaching out like a star with five pointy arms. -but it is not my blood-
I say, - it is not my blood.
I was supposed to save him.
6
THE TIME MACHINE WAS A SONG
the journey was slow seasick skipped my mothers hands reached
up fingers first thing I saw she called out for more humming harder
I came through the ceiling and so it was my mother face ghostly
against the rest of the teenage Mexicans sees me on the floor Im 17
same age as her she sees my clothes laughs like a queen disco ball
halo dress mint green the people swaying mermaids in the music
around my mother dont pay attention as she helps me up I know
my father is somewhere else in the discotca getting a Jarrto for
himself a Sidral for her I pull her away from the dance floor
we go outside I tell her everything Me my brother my father
the rest. all of it all it took was an hour.
the time machine does not matter
what matters is that after I was done she left my father at the bar
walked all the way home past los portales packed her bags kissed
her parents each on the forehead her sisters her brothers without
saying goodbye and left. left. never returned to Mexico never
tried to teach my father to dance never kept a knife under her pillow
I never heard her sing she never spoke a word of English.
she reached Paris in a year. her paintings never sold for too much
while she lived but her novels sold well her poetry collection won
several awards she was happy till she broke her promise
I said never go to America
never let your feet touch the water near the Golden Gate Bridge
but they did, they touched the city the sand, the steel of the bridge
her heart fell in love with the cold green water of the bay,
I was supposed to save her.
BARUCH PORRAS- HERNANDEZ 7
though she left my father in Mexico I didnt cease to exist.
I was stranded for years in the 1970s read her books every night
before closing my eyes, and then one day I listened to her favorite
song the one that brought me to the past and I disappeared.
woke up in my present nose bleeding everywhere
the books didnt make it back.
8
THE TIME MACHINE BROKE
it didnt work I made the same mistake
twice this time time erased my thoughts I think maybe
my memories jumbled somehow but I know I came to fix
something that broke made it worst. all of this is wrong. all
this is not my life this was not supposed to be the time machine
was a slide this time? no the time machine was
a video game? no a blanket? no a drawing? no
it was a mirror? I cant remember I tried so many ways
to get back but remained stranded stuck horrific
knowing you should not do, then do, still I collected plums
that fall from trees in the Berkeley hills where rich gringos live
still walked my brother into the forest smashed
each plumb onto his clean white shirt over and over and over
until it bruised his small chest until my hands formed into pits
sunk into the black purples and reds
but he came back my brother with me down the hills
leaving magenta footprints on the soft gray sidewalks of Albany
at home we ate dinner in front of the small white television
my mother slowly cuts a fig in two
places it into my fathers mouth
no sacrifice could save us.
BARUCH PORRAS- HERNANDEZ 9
BROWN CRINKLY DEATH CRIES
I was in 4
th
grade
and obsessed with death.
My teacher, tired of me starting each day with
Why should I learn anything? Were all
just going to die, anyway. -tells me
to take time to watch the leaves fall
says it would clear my mind
help give me some answers.
I tried it
watching leaves fall.
All I saw, were fucking leaves,
falling.
So I started giving them
their own individual death cries.
No dear god! I had so much more to give!
A leaf would scream as it slowly
fell from a tree.
I regret nothing!
Goodbye cruel world!!
10
Celia, I never loved you!
I heard all the whisperings and kisses
between you and that leaf from the other branch
I ll never forgive you
with my last brown crinkly breath
I curse you!
I never liked making leafs crunch under my feet.
11
A
D
A
M

M
O S K
O
W
I
T
Z
G
O
I
N
G
TO SEE
A
N
N
A
Dels friends are over at our house. They order pizzas
and Pete laughs and says, Lets give his bro a slice.
No way, says Del.
Cmon, says Pete. Pete has a Boston hat on and hair
wings sticking out. He has this plastic bag full of
brown and green and white things and hes putting
them all over the pizza like toppings. Hell love it.
Pete says, Mushroom pizza little man, and gives me
a slice. He turns back to this Jean-Claude Van Damme
movie. Del grabs the plate and starts taking most of
the things off of the pizza and his friends groan. He
leaves one topping on but they eat their slices with
lots of them. The pizza topping was gross like it was
a bunch of dirty chalk. Im watching the Jean-Claude
Van Damme movie and the music gets going while
Jean-Claude Van Damme starts getting attacked by
all these people and it looks like thats gonna be it for
him but its not and then he starts to punch and kick
and win.
I have this major feeling in my gut. Like I grow a
brand new gut. The new gut makes me stand up
on my feet fast. Like my new gut released all this
12
helium inside and my belly is this volcanic helium
balloon and the only reason I dont float up like a
balloon is because my feet feel like they have these
roots stuck in the floor even though everything is
rising. I take this massive breath like its the first
breath of my life. I look at everything in the room.
An envelope, a lamp, a wire, beer bottles, pizza, the
oily inner pizza box, and the sticky, stained floor.
Each thing is a creature living in this living room.
The room is a jungle and everything is part liquid. I
take another big life breath again. Dels friends shift
around and theyre all looking at me, chewing. It
smells like dirty couch and pizza. Birds chirp like
theyre from a world thats alive. I have a new name
everyone, I say. Pete stops chewing.
Oh shit, says Pete. Andy shaves his head and has a
tattoo of the number sixty-nine on the back of it. He
says, Your bro is bonkers.
Do you all want to know my new name? I say.
Fuck, whispers Del.
I realize I dont actually have a new name. The room
is gross and crawling all over me. I have to leave,
I say. I look down unsure if I can move my feet. I
remember the helium and I hope that undoing my
feet from the ground wont blast me through the
ceiling. I take another breath and a step and things
might be OK. Then its like I have new limbs that are
ADAM MOSKOWI TZ 13
better than before, oiled and strong. The birds are
going big time. I bound outside. The world looks like
it was just born living entirely in our front yard. I am
standing in it. It feels like my brain has dripped into
my body. I can feel everything anyone in the world
has ever learned about science in one moment. I learn
what a moment is. Its not what I thought it was. Its
way cooler.
Pete, Andy, and Del have followed me out. They are
studying me. Theyre careful and serious and they all
come around me and I get down on my knees in the
grass and dig each finger into the moistness feeling
for something dark. I think your bros a hobbit, says
Pete.
Shut the fuck up, says Del. I told you not to
give him any. The boys fold their arms and smack
mosquitos. They look like theyre thinking about
Jean-Claude Van Damme. You OK Everett?
I am fucking amazing, I say. Wind blows through
this one tree we have. The tree looks like it wants
the wind. The skin on my head wants the wind too.
The trees bark has all these ridges. I put my fingers
between some of them.
Somethings wrong, whispers Del. He never cursed
in his life.
I can hear you, I say. Nothings wrong.
14
Woah, says Pete. I put my palm on the tree. Its scary
for a second like the tree is sending roots into my arm
and the roots go deep into the middle of me.
Yeah, says Andy. Woah.
Shut up, says Del. Even though its a little scary I
put the other palm on the tree too. The other side of
me fills with the roots too and meets the ones that
went in first and theyre all connected now. The tree
roots in me start to wiggle around like they want to
go down to my feet and plant me in the ground or
something. Del turns to me. What the hell are you
doing to that tree?
Somethings seriously going on. I bet this things gone
on for a long time but Im just figuring it out like
those kids in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.
Except they didnt accidentally take illegal drugs. I
think the tree is doing something to me. I dont know
what that is. It might be something related to biology,
or spirits, or both. I dont know but you should come
over here and put your hands on this tree, I say. Pete
goes,
Dont run into the street little man.
Does he look like hes about to go run into the street?
says Del. Hes got his hands stuck to a tree.
I think I am feeling science, I say. Do you want to try?
ADAM MOSKOWI TZ 15
The weirdest thing of all happens. I hear something
but I swear its not with my ears. Its from the tree. Or
maybe all the trees, ever. Do you hear that? I say.
What are you going to do? says Del. I see that Del
is not going to stop talking to me. I see that I have
to stop doing this thing. This has to come to an end.
I have to part ways with the tree. I hope it doesnt
mind. I get ready. I mumble some sound to the tree
that I hope it knows means something like love. I
press it more and I take my hands off the tree. The
tree and its ridges and its leaves and branches and the
wind and the ground are back to normal, no longer
some live, humming mystery.
Be out here, I say. I like it here. Del looks away. I
feel like were all in a balloon. One big balloon. Its
everywhere and everyones in it and that tree in
our yard knows everything about me. Annas in the
balloon too. Were together.
My knees shake. Anna has maroon paint on her
fingernails and the paint is chipping off. She has a
nose ring and it doesnt look stupid since you cant
see the part of the ring inside her nose. Her hair looks
like her nails and it looks like its wet even though
maybe its not. Its the color of that storm on Jupiter
from those planet posters in science. Shiny, orangey
red waves slide down her face like decorations.
Theres an earring. A silver leaf thing that swings like
a wind chime.
16
I have to go see her. I dont care what Del said. This is
the whole big balloon thing were talking about. This
is not just someone Im going to ask to the dance. I
mean that would be great and all. It would be really
nice to dance with her. But Id rather do that in the
woods or something. Although I dont know how Id
get music out in the woods. Maybe we can dance in
the woods without music. Thats what this is about.
Dancing with Anna in the woods without music.
I have to go see Anna, I say.
Bad idea, says Del.
Great idea, I say. Heres the thing. Maybe for the first
time ever something awesome will happen between
me and a girl. Sometimes when Im deciding if a girl
is pretty or not I look at their hands and fingers and
fingernails. Sometimes you see ladies in stores with
perfect hands and polished nails and sometimes you
see girls with fingers that are round and you can tell
they bite their nails. Sometimes you see a girl like
Anna who has these hands shaped like something
from geometry with slender fingers and nails that
are not perfect but theyre there and not bitten off.
Annas skin looks very smooth. It would be awesome
if big things happened with Anna some day but it
would also blow my mind if she took my hand with
one of her pretty hands.
Whos Anna? says Pete.
ADAM MOSKOWI TZ 17
The love of my life, I say.
Del, says Pete. Maybe we should take him to go see
Anna,
Jesus Christ, says Del.
Get your keys, I say.
19
B
R
I
E
L
L
E
B R
I
L
L
I
A
N
T
S
A
Y
A MAN IS A
C
O
N
F
E
SSING A
N
I
M
A
L
If you walk along the shadow, you will find a crack.
In this crack lives a tiny frog.
The frogs name is Pete.
Pete
I live in a crack next to a shadow.
Pete
Im not a frog.
Pete.
I just saw a dead mouse. It jumped.
Pete
Re-elect me. Im not a frog.
Pete
I live in a crack next to a shadow.
Pete
I water myself daily.
Pete
Baking in the bacon of my soul.
Pete
Once I was a gambler but now Im just a rambler.
Pete
2301 Royale.
Pete
20
Windchime windchime windchime
Pete
You think youre special? You think youre so fucking
special?
Pete
I am a
Pete
I am a
Pete
Little animal.
Pete
I am a
Pete
I am a
Pete
Confessing animal.
Pete
I am a
Pete
I am a
Pete Pete Pete Pete Pete
A man a frog who lived in a crack next to a shadow
where people stared.
Wondered how a man a frog could live in a crack next
to a shadow.
Dear Dear Dear, Dearest, I said, he cant. Hes dead.
And I am a confessing animal.
21
G
I
N
G
E
R B U
S
W
E
L
L
A

D
I
C
T
I
O
NARY FO
R
S
O
U
T
H
A
M
E
R
I
C
A
N
TEMPE
R
A
M
E
N
T
S
Music Man Murray died seven months ago. Emile
is going fishing. His granddaughter lives in Hawaii.
Emile doesnt have anything left on his bucket list.
Hes 89 and hes done everything he wanted to do. He
rented out the warehouse to Music Man Murray for
18 years. Now hes going fishing.
Murray was 92. He sold all of his records to Brazil.
A Brazilian record company bought Murrays whole
collection before he died. There were 300,000 records.
Enough to keep Murray and his wife busy cataloging
and storing them for half a century, until his wife
died and it was just Murray and his records, then
there were too many to keep track of, so he sold them.
I saw them once. There were a lot of blues and jazz
and classical records and dust packing the warehouse
to the ceiling, upstairs and downstairs. But Murray
couldnt find Billie Holidays 1948 rendition of
Strange Fruit. The one my dad left in New York by
accident when he brought 100 pounds of books and
one record to California in a car with a broken
frame, but he brought the wrong record. Murray
didnt have it, so I left without it too. Maybe
22
Murray had it but it got lost in the other 300,000
records. Maybe he never had it. Maybe it wasnt 1948
and it doesnt exist at all, I just got the year wrong, or
my dad made up the year, or forgot, or both.
Maybe its ok. Maybe theres something vital in all
this disappointment, these archival misadventures,
something alive and irretrievable that graces us with
loss. Maybe this is what they mean by saudade. I
walked by Music Man Murrays door on my way to
the train station three blocks from my house, and the
door was open, so I stopped to take another look at
those stacks of records, and instead I found out that
Murray passed away seven months ago and I didnt
know, even though I live three blocks away, and I
met Emile and he told me Murrays records are in
Brazilit took two weeks to get them all out of the
warehouseand Emile is bored because he finished
his bucket list too early, and he thinks I should go to
Hawaii, Id like it there, and maybe Ill go to Brazil
and find Murrays records and then it will be alright
that he died seven months ago and I didnt know, and
Ill have a record to help me remember, even if I dont
find it, even if its the wrong one.
23
A
R
T
I
E M O
F
F
A
S
O
M
E

A
S
S
E
MBLY R
E
Q
U
I
R
E
D
I
IKEA Sideboard!
I wanted this to go differently, IKEA sideboard! I
had hoped, with time, I might even have called you
friend. No more, IKEA sideboard! You have sided
against me in battle! Between us, there can only be
war!
II
IKEA Directions!
You came to me under a newsprint flag of truce,
offering to bridge the divide between me and IKEA
sideboard. You offered yourself as an honest broker.
Now all is broken, yet there is no honesty to be
found here. Fie on you, IKEA directions! When
the bards write the songs of this day, you shall not
escape calumny, though it be written in Swedish, or
Cantonese, or ungendered pictogram!
24
III.
IKEA Alan Wrench!
What. The. ACTUAL. Fuck?
IV
To the many small tragedies of the human condition,
add how rarely we are able to choose what we are
good at. Im good at telling stories. I know exactly
where the parts should go, the perfect functionality
of form. I dont recommend you sit on my poems, but
if you did, my poems would bear your weight. Im not
good at assembling furniture. If you think I chose
my talents wisely, consider the checkout line at your
local poetry store. Compare it to the checkout line at
your local IKEA.
The cruelty is: if I had the mechanical aptitude to
assemble this sideboard, I would probably have the
income to buy my furniture someplace better.
V
I had been divorced for two months when a friend
Id known for years called me at 7 oclock on a Friday
night to ask if I could come help rotate the tires
on her car. We lay side by side on her driveway, the
ARTI E MOFFA 25
asphalt radiating back the residual heat of the day.
I held the flashlight while she tightened the bolts,
and we made each other laugh with stories of our
workweeks. When I tell stories, I know exactly where
the parts should go. During a lull in the conversation,
I asked her why we were doing this NOW, why the
car tires couldnt wait until daylight. She replied that
she was hoping to drive to New York to spend the
night at her boyfriends house.
Well, why doesnt he just drive up here instead?
Because long drives put him in a bad mood. We end
up arguing all night, and I really want to get laid this
weekend.
When her car was road-worthy, we wiped our greasy
hands on newsprint, and she drove me back to my
place. As I waved goodnight, she gave me a strange,
quiet smile before she drove off. I dont know what
language she smiled in, but I know for sure it wasnt
ungendered pictogram. You see, every female friend
who hears this story tells me What a kind favor.
What a good friendship. And every male friend who
hears this story tells me What. The. ACTUAL. Fuck?
VI
Im 35 years old now. I shouldnt have so much
unscheduled time on a Monday afternoon to put
together crappy furniture. If the worst thing that has
26
ever happened to you isnt all that bad, it is still the
worst thing that has ever happened to you. Tautology
makes for good comedy. It makes for weak poetry. It
makes for terrifying reality. I dont know what to do
with that part of this story.
VII
IKEA Sideboard!
IKEA Sideboard, I had wanted this to go differently.
I had hoped, with time, my days would be worthy of
songs. If only I had a better sense of directions.
27
M
O
N
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T
A
G O
L
D
S
M
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H
C
A
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IN
G
ALL W
R
IT
E
R
S
!
for Derrick Brown, if he wants it
Calling all writers!
The 2014 Dick Richards Poetry Prize
is now open for submissions.
All poets writingin English are eligible
to compete.
PRIZES:
The Grand Prize winner of this years poetry
contest will be awarded $150, publication
in our Newsletter, & ten copies of Dick
Richards forthcoming book,
The End of Poetry (Random Penguin House),
signed by the author.

Two runners-up will receive a copy of Dick

Richards book & complimentary beer cozies.
Also signed.

ABOUT OUR JUDGE:

We are pleased to announce that
this years contestwill be judged by Connecticut
Yacht Clubs poet-in-residence, Mr. Dick
Richardsauthor of Spring is for Sissies(2005),
28
Something Died in Winter(2011), & the award-winning
Soccer Moms Need Poems to Fall in
Love Too(2014).
TO SUBMIT:
You may send a notarized check
or money order of $55
to The Connecticut Yacht Club
c/o Dick Richards, PO 27055.
For electronic submission,
just use the link below.

PLEASE NOTE:
If sending by mail, include with your manuscript
a self-addressed stamped envelope
&two cover lettersone with contact info,
one withnocontactinfo.
Manuscripts without a SASE
will be returned without comment.
If you would like to add any of Dick
Richardss several books of poetry
to your order, includingsuch hit titles as:
Prince Jellyfish, Anemone Pleasures,
& The Life & Death of an Extraordinary Seagull,
please send $10 per copyrequested
to the address above.
MONETA GOLDSMI TH 29
Be sure tospecify
the number of copies you wish
to purchase, adding on $3 per book
for shipping/handling.
REMEMBER:
If your order arrives after October 1st,
or if your order does not follow
any of the instructions above,
your envelope &money order
will be withheld without comment.
1
1
This message was brought to you by the Connecticut Yacht Club, in collaboration
with the staff of Exploding Pinecone & Santa Maria III (dock 52). It has been
approved & generously underwritten by Dick Richards & other representatives of his
estate. All rights reserved.
31
W
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J
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B
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O
WING
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P
He gave my poems back to me and said,
these are okay, man, but theres a bitterness in them.
Bitterness wont get you anywhere in life.
Okay, I said, thanks.
Its simple, he said, you get out of life what you put
into it,
everybody gets exactly what they deserve, see?
I didnt find that notion particularly
plausible or comforting, but I let him go on.
Lifes a game, he said, you either get rich
or you eat shit and die, its as simple as that.
Id never thought of it in exactly that way,
but I figured he must know something
because he was 29 years old,
edited a magazine
and had a pretty wife and a big house
in Mexico.
I came from nothing, he said,
I used to starve in little rooms for years
32
living on tap water and stale bread.
But I worked, man, I worked round the clock
and look at me now, Im gonna blow up real soon.
I wasnt quite sure if blowing up meant
becoming really famous or going on a killing spree
but Im assuming he meant the former.
When I blow up, he continued,
Im not gonna be greedy about it.
I just wanna inspire people
and piss off my haters,
use their energy to fuel my greatness.
Ill be free while they work their shitty
20 dollar an hour jobs for the rest of their lives.
I wanted to ask him about those 20 dollar an hour jobs
and how I might get one, but he went on:
Anyway, he said, poetry isnt the way to go.
It doesnt pay and the only way youll get famous
is if you rap it, you know, hip hop style.
Well, I thought, shit.
Me, he said, I get paid 40 cents a word for writing
bullshit.
Memoirs, restaurant reviews, anything but poetry, man.
You just need to learn how things work!
But dont worry, man, you can make it, too.
WI LLI AM TAYLOR J R. 33
You just have to work hard every day,
and you can make it, too.
Write at least 2000 words every day!
It was four o clock on a Sunday afternoon
and all Id accomplished thus far
was drink four cups of coffee,
fuck around on Facebook and take a bath.
Real writers, he said, they figure out
the way things work and write all day
and all night until they blow up!
I thought about the writers I knew
and I dont think many of them understood
much about the way things worked.
Most of them spent as much time
in bars and jails and nuthouses
as they did writing,
but I guess they werent the real writers
he was talking about.
They didnt get paid 40 cents a word
and I guess most of them would eventually
just end up eating shit and dying.
But they were beautiful in their way.
They had strange light in their eyes
and sometimes said wise and funny things
that stayed with me through the lonely hours.
34
Anyway, he said, Ive wasted enough time with you,
Im gonna go get some real writing done
and if youre smart youll do the same.
Ive often had issues with smart,
and ended up having a beer and another bath
while pondering things a bit.
Thinking about how it all worked
just made me tired, so I took a nap
and when I got up I wrote another poem.
WI LLI AM TAYLOR J R. 35
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