is a great myth,
blogging your way through it.
put up a blog.
write poems and put them up there.
put some older ones in between.
write some more, put some more.
till a point where, no one really gives a damn.
write a piece, a last fictional piece on the “anthology” as a whole, the order of rhymes and the briskness of verse.
go on and on, on the flow and terse, of syllables; cut short.
put it up there too and quietly leave.
leave to places which are nameless.
in spaces that are spotless.
leave immediately and disappear.
to never return to sea or soil.
or run into, even the coldest of souls.
and read to forget how you write.
read, Bukowski, Borges, or Baudelaire too.
in a room.
of some hotel.
with a window besides the bed.
and a view of the street, late at night.
empty, with an occasional truck.
honking its way, to somewhere, shattering silence.
read, as a metaphor, the words which repeat,
again and again.
see, as explicitly as you can, for
you might need double glasses on
one for sight
another for insight.
dull it will get,
as dull as it can get.