Open All Night

pretend that life is bearable while

don’t burn your ass.

turn over. yes, like that.

lay your head back on your arms

send to The Atlantic

Monthly,

Harper’s

and The New Yorker.

oh yes, and to

Story magazine.

he walked off to get my beer.

it was a cold December night.

and to those who are quick to praise me

then, I say it now: fuck

you.

I was too insane

demented

confused

to take it back.

I just stood in that r

wondering where it all went

and when.

you’re just another old

boy

with faltering voice and inaccurate

memories.

I don’t want their

congratulations,

their worship,

their companionship.

I may have half-a-

million readers,

a million,

two million.

I don’t care.

I write the wo

well, whatever I am, the I that I am

thinks that this is crap.

of the actors had won an award

somewhere for his

performance

which was ordinary.

and I could feel the jok