Fiction (Draft 1)
Oh I hate I’m so much fiction, and
I’m thinking I should die
I don’t really have a book worth anything,
don’t really have a life, can’t sing well
can’t write for me, for you.
Oh why can’t the world
look at my word —
sometimes when I dream
it seems like
I am open, and
there is still an embrace, but
I can’t
and I’m so sad.
I think when I drown
it will be good, because
somebody
doesn’t want me to surf.
I have no idea
about the wave —
such things are mysteries.
There is an ocean, and
and I love the sound
out my window
every morning when
I hear both crickets,
the surf, and softly you, and then
I wonder why I can’t
write your song.
Maybe it’s because
I’m dead.
I can’t do this
can’t even write
my obituary, because
it’s too damn formal, and
requires compliments, and
in my life reviews, I am sorry
about every day, and every
mistake, but I know you
have never been one, and
I thank you.
— Douglas Gilbert
