Once upon a time, writers were like gods, and lived in the mountains. They were either destitute hermits or aristocratic lunatics, and they wrote only to communicate with the already dead or the unborn, or for no one at all. They had never heard of the marketplace, they were arcane and antisocial. Though they might have lamented their lives — which were marked by solitude and sadness — they lived and breathed in the sacred realm of Literature. They wrote Drama and Poetry and Philosophy and Tragedy, and each form was more devastating than the last. Their books, when they wrote them, reached their audience posthumously and by the most tortuous of routes. Their thoughts and stories were terrible to look upon, like the bones of animals that had ceased to exist.

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little yelling words ten blocks away

Dear idiots,

I only reflect upon you what I've already put upon myself, so we're even, so you can't get indignant, so fuck you. 
I despise you sentimentality.
Melodrama drunk in the ocean on the roof trying to pick out dried vomit from receiver.
Fancy yourself on an impossible journey for quick riches
cause you read a book.

Stuffing myself down a hole of solitude three hours at a time to get back to the word. 
and what is the word?

then you lose it all in the dictation and translation
precognition of the world you saw right at the beginning
the whole universe on the tip of your tongue
and it's not your fault
its the neighbors and the roommates and your phone blowing up
outside dragging you at the feet
take part in our feverish bullshit discourse!
the night is young!
the hours are waining!
Drinks on me!
Music all about the town!
friends to be made!
lovers to be fucked!

Few people are more interesting than these books I have in front of me.
The problem being,
everyone thinks of their lives as more interesting than a little chunk of time a day for words
idiots with alcohol under their nose
with kisses to be had in the asshole
with jobs to be attained and rules to memorize
with wars to be fought
with other people's lives to rein in
with new laws of happiness to be dictated

Those who turn these cumulative hours into that loud solitude
that juggernaut of time chunked out of space
The guru den with the hourglass on its side
not me I fail every other day
increase your capacity for loneliness
milk it for all its change
beat it if you can, make fights from nothing
babble and sing like a demented duck
lose your kids and slice up your darlings
The point to lock yourself in jail
because you also want to be like everyone else
but this lack of a moment resounding with mountain to mountain to mountain
back and forth, side, swing side, swing low and high
has a secret pleasure all its own, you know it
get to the floor and break your knuckles for a consonant

How are you now?
Yes, melodramatic
Love is the answer
Touch is the need
A little conversation for a mental beggar
a tiny stage for a low life braggart
I want to juice a life with you
not to you and not for you
moron, you don't get it
you don't trust me
you deliberate me like a man drowning in culture
I am just an idiot on the periphery.
drunk because you're sober
sober because you're drunk
give me days I'll go on and on
give me a second I'll give you a word