Without ham or hope

Show me a poet and I’ll show you a shit. –A. J. Liebling

Five after midnight, 77 degree Florida winter. I’d finished manually saluting a beautiful fat woman in a norpographic video and the computer was off.

Now the machine is on again. Something won’t let go and from what little is known It’s not Great Art.

One of my previous mini-poems haunts me with its poor quality. I should destroy it, wipe it off the blog. I was insane with grief when I wrote it, tugging in desperation on the jacket of the ghost of Richard Brautigan, a writer I love whose work couldn’t outlive the infamy of his suicide.

Brautigan:

I Feel Horrible. She Doesn’t

I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.

My head aches like a pressurized cabin.

I keep forgetting to breathe which is good: breathing is a filthy habit.

Things will get worse before they get worser. Heh.

Whatever It is that started this idiotic post is now gone. It slunk out of here with no profound insights and I can yawn again, tired as tar. It’s almost 0100.

The highlight of the evening was jacking off to the norp vid of the sexy fat woman. It always is on these disgusting warm nights without ham or hope.