—Anonymous Photo
upon seeing my first book of poetry
deleted from the library’s online card catalog
—John Grochalski, Brooklyn, NY
there is a disbelief at first
kind of a how could they! vibe
that is, before the feelings of failure set in
you remember what it took
to get those poems down in the first place
indignities by the bushel that made up those verses
the years it took for the fucker to come out
remember how proud you were
to have it there on that shelf?
three fiscal years in this institution and not even one read
three million people in this borough
and not one of them cares about you
that’s what you get for sacrificing sleep to the lit gods
for getting up before the sun nursing a hangover
and banging your head against a wall for the right words
deletedeletedeletedeletedeletedelete….delete
to make matters worse you check amazon.com
where the book is currently sitting
at number 10,379,247 with a bullet
clearly not the time to stop paying into that pension yet
or figuring out where to put the pool in the yard
of that big home that you jog past three times a week
should it ever go up for sale
of course, there have been worse things
stabbing at you in this weary life
bullies and jilted lovers and broken bones
shithole apartments and cars on their last legs
jobs that have led you to the brink of death
horrors you never thought that you or any loved ones
would have to go through
a deleted book full of stale sentiments and memories
is quite possibly the least of your troubles
and come to think of it you’d never thought
about that book on the shelf anyway until today
that pride from years ago turning into a dull ignorance
or new words through fresh hangovers
other books to worry about
that you can’t even get on a library shelf
it was a fool’s thought
to think that it would always be there
waiting on that perfect reader
and who knows where it is now?
who really fucking cares other than your bruised ego?
let it be some fire’s kindling
or a doorstopper on mars
let that thin tome sit in its dotage
with the other rejects on the dusty shelf
of an old-age home or mental institution
that shit is dead and gone
and there’s an empty page facing you right now
you vain motherfucker
so make your next move, poet
make it count.
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to New Yorker John Grochalski for today's fine poem (see next Wednesday's post for more from John), and a reminder that D.R. Wagner will be reading in Walnut Grove today at The Tong Fine Art Gallery, 2pm.
