THIS IS A POEM 1.21.17


You know you are growing into failure when the first thing you check about an artist is their age and how old they were when they achieved their masterworks.

Keats died at 25.

There is–and I say this with dignity and the radiant optimism that sunshine brings–no hope for us.

Written at 8:53 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while coming down from an Adderall high and writing for about 27 hours straight and achieving hardly anything. 


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