A Special Ejaculate

The waitress said “Garbage”
She was right.
The painful realization
that I’m not Hemingway
Or Plath, or Neruda, or Rimbaud.

That I can never hope to be them
I don’t even have the balls or the hatred in me that made Bukowski
But I can watch her walk away shaking her fat ass
That doesn’t make me any more of a writer
Than the men going into late night movies
Leaving with wads of toilet paper

A literary ejaculation
A response
To pornography
To the way the world works
To the way children squeal
If I am the man going into these late night movies
Then I guess I am a writer after all.

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