October 16, 2006

On a Lost Manuscript

When I sat on a bench in Union Square Park
and hammered out 12 pages in two hours,
I'd thought, "Ah! I am a writer."
Then, I thought, "Nah,
I just got lucky this time."

When, a few weeks later, I discovered
the loss of those 12 pages,
I'd screamed and cried and thrown things,
and I thought, "Man! I guess I really am a writer."
Then, I thought, "Nah,
I'm just unbalanced."

When, two months later, fully expecting to fail,
I scratched out those 12 pages all over again
in the space of three nights (between 1 and 5 a.m.),
I stared at them, dropped my pen, rubbed my eyes
and thought, "Oh, fuck it, fine, I'm a writer."
And, too exhausted to think anymore,
fell asleep.

Summer 2006.

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