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Spaghetti knots

a room to one’s own

i sat down to write

after a hot day in the city

but hemingway was complaining

of a headache again

because joyce was saying how

he wasn’t saying enough yet

which he also said was much too say

and bukowski was belching about

there being too many boys here

and flaubert was responding in a language

that showed little loyalty to the present

and faulkner was speaking to himself aloud

and salinger was going over my older stuff

arguing that there was too many ands and general words

like stuff that didn’t really show the right writing essence

and nabakov blamed self-referential modern irony

and proust blamed nabakov

and kafka blamed himself

and pound added that even if everyone had already forgotten

he didn’t

want to get started about my use of really

and vonnegut was telling a joke to poe

who was not paying attention

and wallace knocked on the door asking

if this was the right place

and orwell closed the door on him

and bradbury forced the lock

and heller had forgotten to do the laundry today

and where are the woman

bukowski bellowed again

just as hemingway stopped nursing his forehead

with a heavy drink and a light stomach

and a tray of glasses for

steinbeck who thanked the man the good man

bellow who pointed to his watch

dostoyevsky who sipped silently

tolstoy who offered a prayer for more

camus who fought over the bottle

and fitzgerald who mumbled that the first drink

was always the best one

though he drank an additional twelve for certainty

as finally

after too many years

the woman come

angelou

atwood

austen

to mention only the a’s

who looked at me slumped and unshaven

and asked if i had tried

plath as a cure

o’connor as the disease

morrison as salvation

stein as the sin

woolf as both

smith as all

munro as none

didon as enough

rich as not

shelley as a no

adichie as a yes

sontag as maybe

szymborska as always

yanagihara as never

nelson as ever

as in everyone nods in agreement

that something new has been done

though the bronte believes she did it first

and christie knows she did

and weil is about to add something in

just as the uninvited wittgenstein stumbles in

lambasting first beauvoir

then arendt

then the whole thing

as nothing more than an elaborate game

of friendship

which he will not be part of

which he is better than

which he hopes will see me recognize it

and text him back just a bit sooner

which enflames hemingway

for i did not tell him i had a phone

 

he breaks the bottle on layton’s head

smashes a glass cup into cohen’s mouth

and is pulled away by purdy

 

i begin

avoiding the blood

though

most of it

smudges

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

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