12.20.17

Some modern
philosopher (if this is still a word)
spoke of
some disease
where people
think they are
better at a certain
task than they actually are.

I am victim to this.
Writing is something
I am bad at. Yet I practice
it as if there is a future in it.

Even this, this poem, this piece
of trashfire writing
is an attempt at convincing
you (or me)
that I have an iota
of talent
worth
pursuing.

The truth is:
if I’m this bad now
it’ll only get worse
as I get older.

Maybe in senility
I’ll be less hopeless,
when I’ve forgotten
all the people I love

that is when the work
can begin,
the real work,
the sitting and thinking
the deep dive into
consciousness.

Until then I will
be shit.

Bare with me.

Written at 9:05 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.