Waking up, dreadfully early

is dreadful, and then trying to write

because there is nothing else to do.

I feel how Hemingway must’ve felt

after they hooked him up to the electrodes, and he got

short-term memory loss

and he couldn’t remember the previous sentence he said.

It killed his writing

and it eventually killed him,

lying in bed, with empty beer bottles.

The doctors told him, “This condition is reversable”

but the days of no writing piled up

like spent shell casings

and the shotgun looked better and better

for those brains that weren’t being used.

Feminists, have since criticized

his last great novel

because it is too simple–

they don’t realize, simplicity is genius.

Public education has me dancing like an idiot

and the female teachers

don’t follow my lead.

Every guy

considering marriage, should work

as a teacher’s assistant


nobody would get married.

It’s the illusions

that keep us dancing until midnight.

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