"My Life by Somebody Else."
I talked today at noon about, somebody
asked me, what is it like when you
don't write for a long time?
Or more precisely I suppose, what should I do?
I haven't written in a long time.
And I said something like, well, just relax.
Time takes care of everything.
I love it.
This poem was written-- and "My Life by Somebody Else"
was written after I had written "My Life, My Death,"
and I wasn't writing anything.
And after "My Death," what can you write?
So the poem is addressed to that poem,
which was not forthcoming.
I thought to write a poem to that poem
that just wasn't there, might be a way of writing a poem.
Hence this poem.
I have done what I could, but you avoid me.
I left a bowl of milk on the desk to tempt you,
nothing happened.
I left my wallet there full of money,
you must have hated me for that.
You never came.
I sat at my typewriter naked, hoping you would wrestle me
to the floor.
I played with myself, just to arouse you.
Boredom drove me to sleep.
I offered you my wife.
I sat her on the desk, and spread her legs.
I waited, the days drag on.
The exhausted light falls like a bandage over my eyes,
is it because I am ugly?
Was anyone ever so sad?
It is pointless to slash wrists, my hands
would fall off and then what hope would I have?
Why do you never come?
Must I have you by being somebody else?
Must I write My Life By Somebody Else,
My Death By Somebody Else?
Are you listening?
Somebody else has arrived, somebody else is writing.