My reaction

to the gold invitation

was to test the paint

to check its authenticity. There were the names

of the guests

written on the back, in red ink

and I knew

I had made it. Into what? I wasn’t sure. New York literary society

is the only society. It’s full of non-writers, non-thinkers, non-entities,

but I didn’t know that, quite yet—it was only a lingering suspicion.

I learned that my love of writing had no connection to money.

I could be exchanged

from one person to the next

like a prostitute, but my writing remained the same—and perhaps… that’s why I still loved it.

The only way to hold onto something

is to write it down, and I did just that.

I wrote about society.

I wanted to enjoy this world,

without being touched by it

(Much how an astronaut feels, when he invades an alien planet)

but there is always a virus that creeps under his suit

and eats-away his brain.

There was cocaine, caviar, champaign, conversation, and laughter.

A tiny pink man was making most of the jokes, while everyone was smiling.

It was the saddest sight I had ever seen,

brought on by an atmosphere of fear.

The rich were afraid of the poor.

I was waiting for someone to say,

“Let’s get out of here!” but nobody did.

They lingered

longer

becoming bored

and popping pills.

It was a horror story that was writing itself—my next novel.

People are the only creatures that want it all,

and when they get it,

they eat it up,

because they don’t want anyone else to have it.

It makes them sick and dead—

enough said.