Sunday 7/09/2006 12:29:00 AM

I've been writing in the morning. In the afternoon. Sober. Decent things. Rhetorical questions.

I've been telling them not to worry. Lying. Because what else is there to say when.

I was watching Capote and thinking about the new genre he invented. How little he had to do to change things. How he didn't have to try that hard to be great. He just let it have him.

And I wanted to write differently. A novel in poetry. No stanzas. No verses. But something not the same.

And how stupid it sounded.

I started to do it, but the tasks I create for myself are always larger than my ambition.

I wanted a best of in the sidebar. But how. If I can't stand to weed through all those words how could I ever ask that of anyone else.

Sometimes my self-esteem gets so low that it's high. And I know exactly what's wrong with me, but I don't desire to fix it.

All I want is to find a way to make people remember. To paste together a collage of words the world will won't want to forget. Fashion from the images in my head a new set of clothes for the world.

I choke down the comments like aspirin. But they don't take away the pain. I want to have a response. A life presrver. For the people who listen.

But it already seems too late to be anything other than an alcoholic poet.

Writing novels devoid of plots. Selling songs that never sing.

You're not deaf.

I just can't say.

What you want to hear.

I could write a novel. In poetry. I could do it.

And it would be as ugly as it was beautiful. But who would care at all.

What it had to say?

Who would even know if it had said anything at all?

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