This is an edited version of the poem that first appeared in Fountain of Youth (Vine Leaves Press, 2016), p: 59–60.
I am the author of 29 years of fuckups
from the fellowship of
Stop Referencing Them in My Presence.
I know my fuckups
like a Shakespearean actor knows his iambs.
I know them loud, full of spit and sweat.
I know them like a preacher on a Sunday morning.
Like a cheater on the phone with her girlfriend
saying she is working late.
Like a politician knows nothing.
Like you pretend to know politics or faith.
Remember plagiarizing in university?
Yet your bibliography today deserves a standing ovation.
Bravo.
Not really.
Sit your ass back down.
This is just to say — don’t say.
I’m tired of hearing you say
what I have said.
Blessed is she who knows when to
shut up.
I read that somewhere.
(I didn’t. But here you go,
noted in your honor.)
You have become the vicarious author
of this poem,
from the fellowship of
Never Piss Off A Poet,
because no matter what our psychologists say,
poets won’t forget,
and far from adding unnecessary turmoil
to already turbulent affairs, details
mean the difference between
alive & awake.
