I have this habit of advertising
but I don’t consider myself to be a salesman
When somebody asks me what I do—what I’m about
I tell them…
“I have a blog.”
And invariably, they ask me, “What’s it called?”
And I ponder, and hesitate, and change the subject
and they ask me again
and I tell them
because I’m a very agreeable fellow
even though, I know, once they find-out what I’ve written
they will be calling for my head
and it’s not for my creative genius, above my shoulders
it’s the cutting off, of something disgusting
and they will feel better, afterwards
like when pulling-out a particularly invasive weed
or cutting-off the head of a poisonous snake
It feels good
to kill something bad
like trimming your toenails
or blowing-out your snot
or taking a dump
or picking your nose
or removing the trash
Nobody talks about it, because it’s not polite
but secretly, we all wish there are things that would die
Maybe, we will read the newspaper, and see them, in the obituary columns
or get the bad news on the telephone
like when Uncle Albert passed away (He always gave me socks for Christmas)
I know what you’re thinking… I’m an ungrateful wretch!
But they were his used socked, with holes in them
and he had fungus for 35 years.
What does that say to a child, when he unwraps them, year after year?
Needless to say, he didn’t have any kids of his own
but who am I to judge?
I’m a writer—
that’s what writers do.