he drinks his beer
like others drink tea
from small ceramic cups
with thin, fragile handles
And he sits there
cross-legged
and smacks his lips
and licks away the foam mustache
and says, “Um, you know, it is not
good to write every day. You will
find it, um, quite
counterproductive actually.”
“How so?”
“The words, kiddo. They need time
to pile up inside of you.
It’s kinda like shit, you know? You
gotta give it time to gather up
in your guts. If you shit
after every meal, you’re
just not
doing the best job you can do. Ah, but
let it pile up for a few
days and then you’re making
art, alright.
Same with writing. Don’t just
write every day. It’s not healthy,
first of all, yeah, just like
shitting after every meal. I mean,
you gotta give your body time to
absorb the nutrients from food, no?”
“Eh, I… guess you
have a point.”
Yeah, he must know what he’s talking about
If not him then who? I mean,
he’s the guy who
never worked a day in his life
because he married a rich woman
who pays for his living
while he’s still trying to come
out with that bestseller
He’ll be 57 in a few
months
and growing ever fatter
while the rest of us who write every day
keep starving
You bet I look
up to him

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