I have resolved to write garbage. This is the only way out. Every day until the end of the year I will write some likely piece of garbage, and I will not miss any days.
My friend Terry, who probably owes me a phone call (Terry, pick up the goddamn phone), once wrote a hundred poems in twenty-four hours. I read them all but remember only one:
Now everything I think is a poem
This isn’t why I’m going to write garbage. I’m going to write garbage so that I can get over my phobia of writing garbage.
Actually, there’s another, bigger reason I’m going to write garbage, but I can’t talk about that. Nor can I talk about why I can’t talk about it.
This is what I mean by garbage.
Except that this at least is mildly entertaining: a vow to write garbage. The garbage itself will be, I expect, another thing entirely.
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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