Pictures: Pier Paolo Perilli. Words: D. Kaufman.
I don’t have another poem in me. I’ve been searching for one for a while. Most of the day I lay in bed with my face pressed into a pillow. The search for a poem has led my face into a pillow.
Love is finite. As opposed to what one would like to believe there is only a limited amount of it. This means that it should be cleverly spent before it’s exhausted.
I’ve been accused of being a misanthrope. I would clarify that it is not hate that I feel but contempt of everything. By everything I mean the entire universe, with myself included in it. The universe is equally contemptuous of me.
I was hoping that my death would be similar to The Death of Ivan Ilyich, or at least to a Death in Venice kind of death. Though at this point I’d even take a Death of a Salesman death, or Death on the Installment Plan death, if it comes to nothing else.
I haven’t read a book in two weeks (a record). I’ve been reading the newspapers instead. Reading the newspapers inhibits the enjoyment of reading fictional narratives because newspapers describe a far more detailed plot. After reading the newspapers for a while the world seems like a fictional plot that I’m somehow participating in. This is similar to how the people in the Bible would have felt if they knew that they are in the Bible. This is why one should not read the newspapers too often.
In volume twenty-seven issue nine edition of the journal Death Studies it has been found that poets die at a younger age (in comparison to other writers and the general populace). The New York Times even made note of this research. This means that it must have some interest to the public. The fact that poets die younger has more interest to the public than the poetry the dead (or dying) poets wrote is in turn a catalyst to more (relatively younger) dead poets.
I’m entrapped. I’m humiliated. I’m defeated. I’ve smoked and drank myself to dysfunction. I use a wooden spatula to rub my own back when I’m in bed so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I feel alone. I feel like an infant deprived of maternal love. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a country. I don’t have a home. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know why I should go there. Nobody is waiting for me there. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I made up and what is true. It all got mixed up. I’m ugly. I’m frail. I’m sick. I can’t sleep. I think that I’m dying. There must be a poem here somewhere.∎