SUICIDE NOTES

the Worcester semi final slam tonight. First one I’ve missed in years.

I wasn’t feeling all that well, but mostly I was bored. I’m bored in general by a lot of things right now. I think I hate poetry and poets a lot…

I did get to sit with Morris, which helped me a bit with maintaining a modicum of interest in things for a while; nonetheless, I am missing something…

I read “The Frontier” tonight, and have been working on it since I got home; the last lines aren’t working at all. The immediate solution is to cut them, but I think it’s too easy that way.

But why bother?

I feel like I can’t read poetry any more the way I have always tried to read it — as if it were the last thing I would ever do, and so needed to be invested in it to that level for the sake of excellence and legacy and passion…Know why?

Because I did it tonight, as I always do; said those words to myself before I started…and all I could think of was, “So what? So what if it is the last thing you’lll ever do? Who here will care? Who will recall that? It’s just another stupid poem by just another stupid poet, just another idiot masturbation.”

We’d be better off as ghosts. We’d haunt people longer.