I know this guy

who

everybody likes. He invited me over to his house the other day.

I like his wife, and I enjoyed being there.

He can cook well

and he’s an excellent host. They made egg rolls and chicabob chicken

salad and fruit on a tray.

We watched the gossip channel.

To be liked by everybody

one must love people. Humanity, requires more—and this guy, gives

endlessly. I like to keep to myself. I’m not generous.

Sometimes, I think I should be, but it’s never genuine. This is me.

I stare into the mirror, not liking what I see. Those eyes

are big and black. I am so lucky, to have people like this

invite me over—who take an interest in me. I have walked my own way

and talked to myself, far too long—

I go see my mother

and we walk

and watch

a black and white film.

I go home at night, listening to the radio

I watch a movie about a writer who murders his wife. He visits another writer on an island

to get feedback on his story. This writer reminds me of me. He is rude, and totally uninhibited.

He smokes like a chimney

and drinks wine, like the last supper.

I asked my mother, “Should I stop writing?”

and she tells me, “We have writers in the family.”

“I don’t think I can stop.”

That’s the tragedy. If you look for yourself

for too long

you might find who you are

and there is no going back from that.

It’s a kind of acceptance, the world doesn’t accept.

Once you find your true self and accept that, you don’t change

and it seems ridiculous to keep looking…

Like finding God

and then, looking for another God

or winning the lottery, and needing to play again.

The need to change, to be molded into

what someone else wants, to be of use, is a pressing need.

If you are only of use to yourself, it can be easy to feel useless.

The impractical nature of you,

but to trade it?

There’s nothing I can trade it for, and yet

I have to watch other people

being things, I will never be.

I want to be, that asshole writer on an island

able to wield words with intrigue.