I have a file on my computer of

200 unfinished/unpublished

poems. Not that the locations

of my mostly self-published

works are of great notoriety,

but I’ll take what I can get –

even if self-created.

I mean, I am (quite literally

some-times) a starving

artists. But that’s not true,

and who gives a shit

anyway –

but scanning poem

after poem…

after poem…

after poem,

I realize

(and you can translate

this next bit

anyway you will):

I hate everything.

(although, I am only

referring to the

200 unfinished/unpublished

poems).