over the weekend my brother and i were fucking off in of all places a hospital emergency room. let's just say that everything is fine regarding our visit there. so then anyways, my bro was asking me to sign my name on a white board in said room. he took one look at my squiggle and busted up laughing. told me that that was the most retarded thing he's ever seen.

i said, yeah it's real embarrassing when i sign my books.

you got books? real books, or do you publish them yrself?

fuck. i tried to talk about diy publishing, the punk spirit in poetry, but no, he was having none of it. not that my hermano is a philistine, only he thinks that real books come in trade paperbacks or hardcovers and are usually found in stores like borders and barnes and noble.

why argue, i thought. poetry is a lonely, cold life sometimes. tho sometimes i can just hear the snickers when i'm walking down the street. people pointing and whispering, oh shit, there goes rimbaud-in-his-own-mind.

whatever. maybe i should change my name to something like THOR! GAWD of POESIE! then i'd have publishers punching themselves in their faces competing to get me to sign a book contract while major universities would fall over themselves to get me the 1st billion dollar chair in beer drinking, writing and sitting around watching movies.

ah yes. that'd be the fucking life.