When I think of great writing,
I see a girl in a lavender haze,
an old man wailing into his yellowed sheets.
There’s a feeling in my stomach that wafts like a good smell
or bursts like a light bulb.

Why do I want to spend my life writing books?
I don’t want to spend an hour reading one.

Anything you’ve truly felt vanishes when you try to write it,
so you settle for symbols contrived by an unnatural race.

I use the hour looking at your Facebook page -
67 pictures from your f***ing ski trip.
I can’t even see you under your coat and goggles.

The human body is more gorgeous than any book.
Without artist or audience, it throbs and thumps and gurgles.
Hell knows why it exists at all, but it is life: hot, wet, and disgusting.