to write when you know nothing about it for the puffed up glamour of cigars and black turtleneck writing.

I wish I were 35 and brilliant already
I wish my meloncholy mattered at all
toothache and heartache interchangeable
No sad boy of a lover
On valentines day
No
Not at all
Just poets taunting me
When will you grow
When will you strain and unravel and build words and wisdom.
Poets that aren't really talking to me.
But are clearly saying so, in their mere glittered existence.
A poet is more humble than all.
And I see all the young and All the literary and they reek smug and vanity.
"I am apoet don't you know"
They puff through their nostrils
"I am greater
I am darker
I am magnificent."
A poet is the least magnificent
Poet is he
 Who is small
And secluded
And stationary
And he has the honor
To offer his humble words
As a mantra
For all the restless.
I wanted to be a poet when I was 15
So when I am 35
I will have started displacing lives
The way buckowski and sexton have mine.
Charels and Ann were the least magnificent
And maybe
So is I.