Why I Am Not A Painter

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a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry

            on the internet
            in the hopes of creating something better

            This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
            Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.

            You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
            comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
            Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.

            Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
            I am aware that that can be unsettling
            but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
            maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
            there is never a clear picture of reality

letter (just wrote this on the walk home) -- draft something (1.7?)

this place is where i
nothing. nothing. nothing. nothing.

there was a snow storm last week.
will you write me

when the weather is more appropriate
for letter writing

it is white outside.

i took a sled, it was green
down a very small hill

i saw our friend. she was jogging.
i was contemplating

the existence of thin cigarette
smokers

our friend, she said
i didn't recognize you

am i "happy"?

i've been thinking about the thesaurus.
have you been thinking i shovelled snow
for several hours;

i have to wear my bag like a fanny pack.
sometimes i imagine

i took a walk today--i said that.

i took a walk today.

i carried the sled.

will you write me?

posted by Emilie # 7:05 PM 0 comments

today i tell some non-fiction
writer that i am a writer, but i can't
make a living like he does,
i write poetry; he says this is
admirable, and i'm thinking

he definitely would not like my poetry
he would think this is crap

i don't ask him his name so i can read
one or many of his books, i probably
shouldn't bother to pretend i read
non-fiction anyway, who am i my father

a few minutes later i realize i have written
absolutely nothing in the past month

is it legitimate

to blame everything on my body
for shoving a knife into my hand
and then nearly dying for a while
or at least feeling like it

i can't really say, instead when i am feeling
better i find myself at the computer doing
nothing so i move on and find myself
at the typewriter typing i am full of shit

it makes me really happy
saying i am a writer, that is a good reason
for this crappy job and whatever
else i am doing sub-par

some floor tiles at my workplace have recently been replaced
because of water damage. the other tiles scuff
more easily, and i find this appealing in the way
that discontinued items i own are appealing

this non-fiction writer i am speaking with
is a discontinued item as long as i continue
to describe an interaction with him
without knowing anything about him

he wears glasses and is from LA

posted by Emilie # 12:04 AM 0 comments

Why I Am Not A Painter

letter (just wrote this on the walk home) -- draft something (1.7?)

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