A Buick in the Land of Lexus

This is who's giving writing advice. Why wouldn’t you take writing advice from this man?

The writing gods have buried me.

I’m a ghost trapped in crippling indecision.

Which ME should I write?

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Enter Charles Bukowski, « so you want to be a writer? »

This poem has always fired me up,

like a pep squad before the big game.

I was the quarterback at the keyboard field; my high school brain hot wired on energy drinks, carb loading and anabolics the coach procured to shoot into beautiful blue teenage veins.

Today  –  you’re an irritant. You’re the PLAGUE.

You’re a bombastic lecture, a tirade of what I’m not and how I can’t and why I shouldn’t.

Fuck you, Bukowski.

Shut yer PIEHOLE.

I can’t corral these

magnetic fields of thought;  brilliant and terrible investigations; verbal threats of transferable love; abandoned novels wishing for a record of having been together, flipping…

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